There and Back Again
by Calcifersgrl
Summary: Author's Note! Sophie finds that living Happily Ever After with Howl doesn't come so easily, esp. after being catapulted into the fairytale plans of the Witch, who will do whatever it takes to live Happily Ever After herself.
1. In which the Witch is back, and has a co...

There and Back Again: A Howl's Moving Castle fic  
By Calcifersgrl  
  
Author's Note: Where are the Howl's Moving Castle fic?!? Well, this is going to be one of the firsts, I guess. Twinklestar: whereever you are, please do continue your HMC fic. I can't find it anymore! Well, your fic inspired me to write my own HMC fic.   
  
I absolutely adore Sophie and Howl and the others from the Castle series, all of whom belong to Diana Wynne Jones (who is an absolutely wonderful author).  
  
Please Read and Review. Tell me what you think! I honestly don't know what's going to happen here, so send ideas!   
  
***  
Chapter One: In which the Witch is back, and has a Conversation with Sophie  
  
"You covet something that belongs to me, Miss Hatter," said a voice, "And I'm not going to rest until I get it back." The Witch glided out from behind the sulking shadows. Her voice was cool, husky like her former fire demon, Lily Angorian. Her hair was an improbably shade of black now, draped over one bony shoulder.   
  
Sophie stared at her. "You're dead. Howl crumbled your heart. I saw it."  
  
The Witch laughed. Snootily. Sophisticatedly. She sauntered over, looking very much the part of a court lady. "Quite true, Miss Hatter. Quite true. Heartless Howl crumbled my heart. But I don't need a heart to exist. I just needed a new body," she explained, coming closer and closer to Sophie. "You should know that. After all, Howl doesn't have a heart," she added, leeringly.  
  
Sophie trembled, but stood her ground. She was no longer old, yet the looming bony woman in front of her caused that dratted heart of hers to bang against her chest, trying to jump out of her body. "He has a heart," she said, struggling to keep her calm. "I broke his contract with Calcifer. They're both free now. Howl has a heart; I gave it back to him."  
  
"Does he now?" The Witch paused in her saunter, and regarded her coolly. Ice blue eyes flickered in her new face, a young, porcelain one. "I see you've given your heart to him."  
  
Sophie reddened. She clenched her hands, desperately wishing she had her good luck stick with her. "That's no business of yours," she said determinedly. "You couldn't have his before, you can't have his now."  
  
The Witch looked at her through cruel blue eyes. "Is that so?" Her corners of her mouth flickered up into a wry smile. "Is that what you think?" Then she threw back her head and laughed. A husky, throbbing voice. It reverberated and ricocheted off the walls.  
  
Sophie swallowed. She'd always hated girls with beastly throbbing voices, especially Lily Angorian. Especially when she had thought Howl had been in love with that dratted fire demon. But she wasn't going to take this from the Witch. Especially from the Witch who was supposed to be dead.   
  
"Young girl's love. Puppy love," boomed that loathsome voice scornfully. "You've given him your heart and yet, he hasn't given you his heart . . ."  
  
"Yes he has," Sophie replied. "Howl said we were going to live happily ever after. He loves me."  
  
"Love, if he could. But he can't. Do you want to know why? Because I've got him, Miss Hatter. I've ensnared him, and soon, I will get all of him."  
  
"You can't," cried Sophie furiously. Her eyes narrowed at that mocking heart-shaped face. She glared ferociously ("That turned me to stone!" Howl had once replied) at the black sheets of hair swinging from underneath her broad black hat.   
  
The Witch laughed again, not pleasantly, but rather hatefully and callously. "Isn't it funny that you can tell me what to do, Miss Hatter, when I can do what pleases me?" Then that porcelain face visibly tightened. "I've got him, and I'm going to get all of him. You won't stop me. You can't stop me."  
  
"Not if I can help it," said Sophie between clenched teeth.  
  
The Witch sneered. "That's the trouble, you can't help it, but I'd sure like to see you try." She tipped her hat, mockingly. "To save Howl, you'd have to give him up first, and I don't believe even you are capable of doing that, Miss Hatter."  
  
And she was gone. Stepped side-ways into the shadows and vanished.  
  
Sophie seethed inside. Her heart pounded inside its cage. "It's okay, heart," she told it, "You belong to Howl. Nothing's going to change that." But she couldn't deny something wasn't right. Something was wrong with Howl. There was something true that rang in the Witch's statement. It was an instinct deep down inside, and she knew something was wrong.   
  
To save Howl, you'd have to give him up first, and I don't believe even you are capable of doing that, Miss Hatter.  
  
"Well, I'll show her," said Sophie bitterly. "It IS puppy love. Howl falls in love with every girl he meets. And just because he has his heart back, he thinks that he's in love with me." She whipped her head around, looking for that mocking smile and cruel eyes. "I'm giving him up," she cried, proclaiming it for the Witch to hear. "You aren't going to have him," and then her voice got softer, a little broken and incoherent, "not if I can help it."  
  
That's the trouble, you can't help it, But I'd sure like to see you try. 


	2. In which Sophie tries to leave the Movin...

Chapter 2: In which Sophie tries to leave the Moving Castle, but doesn't quite   
succeed  
  
By Calcifersgrl  
  
***  
  
Sometime during the night, Sophie thought she heard someone crying, and was rather put off to find that it was her own pillow that was wet with tears. "Confound it all," Sophie muttered to herself, "Leaving all this behind is going to be harder than I thought." She swung her legs over the edge of the cot, and edged her way out of the little room. Tiptoeing past Calcifer, who still resided in the fireplace even though he was free, took a bit more skill than she'd thought. The darkness burst into blue, green, orange, and purple flames, revealing the cheeky, if somewhat sleepy, smile of the fire demon.   
  
"Going somewhere?" asked Calcifer, stifling a yawn.  
  
"Don't be silly," snapped Sophie, more rudely than she'd intended. But then she looked guiltily at the little knapsack she had compiled filled with her meager belongings.   
  
Calcifer followed her glance and observed, "You were never that good at lying."  
  
Sophie bit back her sharp retort. This was goodbye to Calcifer, and she probably shouldn't waste it by bantering back and forth. Instead, she clutched the little bundle and took a deep breath.  
  
But before the words could spill out of her mouth, Calcifer said matter-of-factly, "Why are you so intent on leaving?"  
  
And because her brain was churning furiously like clockwork, and the night's dream had only yet begun to register, and because she didn't really think she could try to explain love and the aching in her chest to a fire demon, who of all beings really wouldn't know anything about it, she simply said, "Because the contract's broken. And there's nothing left for me here."   
  
Calcifer studied her, lifting one purple eyebrow. Sophie felt her face go red, thinking that surely Calcifer, who read into matters far more deeply than fire demons usually did, could see through such a blatant lie. A half-truth, she amended quickly in her mind. And felt the flush creep up her neck and up to her ear tips, as she thought about Howl, and the fact that there was something for her here in the Moving Castle, and that she would rather not leave. She was glad that the darkness hid her face.  
  
But Calcifer merely said, "Could you pass me a log on your way out then?"  
  
Taken back, Sophie quirked an eyebrow and made a face. "Can't you do that yourself now? You know, you're not bound to the fire place anymore." She had thought of anyone, Calcifer would be one to protest. She regarded him suspiciously. True, he was a fire demon, finicky and tricky by nature, but she had never seen him so indifferent to such an important decision. Important in her mind, at least. Sophie suddenly realized that she wanted someone to protest, to hold her back, and tell her that she was behaving nonsensically. That dreams were nothing more than dreams; that there was no possible way that the Witch could still be alive. Howl had crushed her heart . . . and yet, unbidden, Sophie recalled the Witch's biting words, full of egotism and spite, "But I don't need a heart to exist . . . You should know that . . ."   
  
Calcifer shrugged, illuminated in his own light. "I could if I wanted to." He fashioned himself fingers and stretched a "hand" as if to curl under the first log in the stacked pile, but then retreated. "But for sentimental reasons, I'd prefer you to do it. Reminds me of the old days," and at this, his sleepiness disappeared and he cackled impertinently, "when you were still a nosy old woman. You just couldn't resist poking that long, beaky nose of yours around."  
  
Sophie tried to suppress a smile, but couldn't quite succeed. She bit her lip to stop the moistness that was starting to make her eyes swim. No, she was not going to burst into tears like some silly damsel-in-distress. Girls with beastly throbbing voices did that. Not she. Not ever. "Well, then," she managed, dismayed to hear her voice crack, "I guess this is goodbye, Calcifer."  
  
He didn't respond, only stared impassively as she started putting the seven-league boots on. Then he gave his familiar mischievous cackle: "I wouldn't count on it." Sophie yanked on one boot. "It's raining heavily outside. I wouldn't set foot outside the castle tonight, if I were you, but perhaps, you can start in the morning, and take this matter up with Howl."  
  
Sophie didn't reply, but instead, got up, one boot in hand and one on her foot, and hopped over to the door. It was on green down (Howl had repainted it and switched it so the Moving Castle once again moved over the hills overlooking Market Chipping). She opened it rather easily and showily, only to have the effect ruined when huge gusts of wind accompanied by pelting rain and hail came uninvited through the door.   
  
She quickly slammed the door shut, shouting, "Botheration!" And then remembered that she didn't want to wake Howl, lest he should be interested in her midnight enterprise. She kicked the door, softly, flinging little rain droplets off her boot all over the already-covered-in-water-and-hail floor.   
  
"Watch it," murmured Calcifer, cheerfully. "If you're not careful, you could put me out."  
  
Sophie hmphuffed, and faced the fire demon, scowling. Despite her initial frustration, she was appalled to find a secret part of her secretly smiling at not having to leave just yet. On top of that, she was dripping wet, and had tiny ice balls melting all over her new dress (a beautiful thing that Fanny had given her as a gift.) "No wonder you were so indifferent to me leaving." Then she started to move closer to the fire demon, bringing the feared water drops that much nearer.   
  
He eyed her in alarm, "Not too close!"  
  
Sophie stopped. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say this was part of your plan. Can fire demons control the weather?"  
  
Calcifer grinned, "Just one of our many secrets. I won't tell you; what do you think?"  
  
Sophie started to wring her hair out, careful to keep it away from Calcifer, and grumbled, "I don't know what to think." She had taken off the seven-league boot, tired of only hopping on her other foot. The pair of boots sat in front of the happily blazing fire demon, drying. Then she added, "But I'm leaving tomorrow. No one's going to change my mind." She gave one last strong-minded wring to squeeze any last water out of her hair, dragged her knapsack back to her room, and kicked the door shut.   
  
Calcifer just crackled: "It's not green slime, but it'll do." Then he too went to sleep. 


	3. In Which Sophie is repeatedly congratula...

Chapter 3: In which Sophie is repeatedly congratulated and decides she has had enough  
  
  
Author's Note: I tried, really tried, to make the characters sound the same. But I don't think it's going so well!!! Well, read and review. Tell me what you think. I wrote this in one sitting, cuz I felt like writing Chapter 3.   
I own nothing (except for Howl's fuzzy bunny slippers here!) It's a long chapter! So there!  
  
***  
Sophie woke with a groan, raising one arm to shield the light coming in from the open door.   
  
Michael had opened the door, wide enough to stick his head in and let an eye-blinding ray of sun in at the same time. "It's about time you're awake," said Michael, a little jittery. "Howl's made all of us breakfast."  
  
Sophie blinked. She heard the surprise she felt in Michael's voice. Howl made them breakfast? Made her breakfast? As she untangled her legs from the blanket and folded it neatly, she wondered idly how much Howl had changed since he got his heart back. And she feared whether he had changed at all.  
  
But she pushed all this to the back of her mind, and cautiously stepped out of the room and followed Michael. She wasn't sure what she had been expecting to see, but it sure wasn't what beheld her in the kitchen. He had not sailed out of the bathroom in a cloud of perfume this morning. No, Howl was not wearing his usual trademark flashy flowing robes, but rather an odd green and blue striped robe (plaid) that she had never seen. On top of that, he was wearing fuzzy bunny slippers.   
  
"Sophie's admiring my slippers," Howl remarked to Calcifer, "And she doesn't even bother to say 'Hello' or 'Good Morning.'"  
  
Sophie jerked her head up and gathered her wandering thoughts at Howl's voice. He hadn't changed a bit, except for the fact that his normally perfect blonde hair was in disarray. It curled wildly about his ears and poked up in various spots (on impulse, Sophie wanted to smooth it down, but restrained herself). He grinned at her, and Sophie's heart jumped. He looked endearingly cute. She scolded herself again. She wasn't old anymore, but her heart was still behaving irrationally. The sooner she got away from Howl, the better.   
  
"We've never said 'Hello' or 'Good Morning' before," Sophie objected, before sliding herself down into a plump chair.  
  
"Let's make a tradition of it," Howl said, abnormally cheerful. "Good morning."  
  
She mumbled out her bit, likewise, and raised her eyebrows at Michael.  
  
Michael shrugged in return, and returned his own accusatory glance: It-wasn't-me-this-is-your-fault!  
  
Howl distributed steaming scrambled eggs onto Michael, Sophie's, and his own plate, fed the leftovers to Calcifer, who greedily gobbled it down, and then sat down in the chair next to Sophie.  
  
"Ah," Howl said, "the love seat." He grinned at Sophie again. She must have looked extremely distressed because he laughed, then explained, "In Wales, these type of chairs are called love seats."  
  
"Oh," said Sophie, somewhat relieved. She had been afraid of this, she'd realized. She'd been afraid that Howl would make a show of being in love with her. That he would get down on one knee, looking very noble and sad, and profess his love for her. And that would make it all the more distressing on her part to leave him. But she was glad it was this way. She couldn't take the down-on-one-knee, guitar-strumming, in-the-moonlight type of romance.   
  
They finished breakfast, and then Michael and Howl hurriedly rushed about duplicating thousands upon thousand pairs of seven-league boots for the King. The King of Ingary was preparing to declare war on all of Strangia, and the specially commissioned boots were for his army. Sophie washed the dishes, and then was left alone to think. She was glad of the quiet and of Calcifer's company.  
  
"He doesn't know, does he?" Sophie asked Calcifer, comfortably sitting before the fire demon.   
  
"How could he?" Calcifer scoffed. "When he's behaving like this?" The fire demon jumped out of the fireplace and hovered above Sophie's head, careful to not set her hair on fire. They both watched through the distant window as Howl and Michael conjured up identical brown boots from the air. Once and a while, Howl seemed to lose his concentration, and would get something extraordinary. The first time, it was a chicken; the second time, it was a whale.   
  
Sophie and Calcifer rushed outside to get a closer look.  
  
Howl was busily grappling with the slippery whale, trying to yell out instructions to Michael for its vanishing. "I must have said my words wrong!" he yelled, grunting under the weight of the beluga, "Michael. Can you read the scribble on that parchment over there? Yes, that one." Michael scrambled to pick up the parchment, said some word (nonsense to Sophie's ears) and the whale vanished into thin air.   
  
The look on Howl's face betrayed his foul temper. He was rubbing a hand on his back, and there was a scowl pasted on his face. But when he saw Sophie and Calcifer peering out of the back doorway, he looked rueful. "Blasted thing," he said. "Lost my concentration on the nine hundred-eighty-seventh pair of boots." He groaned, arching his back, trying to take the crick out of it.   
  
Michael hurried over to his side. "Are you alright?" he asked anxiously. "It wasn't a real whale was it?"  
  
"Course it was," replied Howl. "I conjured it, didn't I?"  
  
"But you wouldn't have been able to hold it up!"  
  
"Well," Howl admitted, and the rueful look came back on his face, "it wasn't entirely real. When you conjure up items, they aren't as heavy as the real things. But my back is sore," he said pointedly.   
  
Howl and Michael agreed to take a short break, and the two of them and Calcifer went back inside. Sophie stayed outside, having nothing better to do. It was a clear sunny day, and Sophie felt the restlessness invading her heart again. Tomorrow, she thought. I'll leave tomorrow. There must have been a million brown boots in the backyard, all impossibly crammed in one corner. She picked up a boot, and inspected it. She wondered at the realness of the leather, and at how Howl had managed to make so many.  
  
"Still nosing around, I see," remarked a voice from behind her. Sophie spun around, dropped the boot, and blushed. Howl was leaning languidly against the door post, his hair still mussed. He came up to her. "I can teach you magic, if you'd like." He wrinkled his nose good-naturedly, "You have a gift, Madame Sorceress," not a bit mockingly, "one that could be enhanced with other types of magic learning." He had changed into the gray-and- scarlet suit, and Sophie eyed it thoughtfully; in the end, she had been the one caught in her own needlework. She still had yet to undo that charm before she left.   
  
Perhaps, Howl had been thinking of the same thing because he suddenly grasped her hands. "Sophie," he said earnestly, perhaps as earnest as he would ever become, "Sophie, not that much has changed between us. The spell's off you, but there is something left for you at the castle. Don't leave. Please."   
  
He'd added the 'please', Sophie thought, for extra measure, extra emphasis, or maybe because he'd remembered his manners.   
  
"Did Calcifer tell you?" she asked, a little put off, but she did not yank her hands away from Howl.  
  
"He did," Howl acknowledged and his shrug said We're-partners-what-can-you-expect!, "But he didn't have to. I could read it in your face."  
  
At this, Sophie did pull away from Howl's touch. It never occurred to her that Howl could read her face just as easily as she could read his. Or perhaps, it was because she had lost her guise of an old woman, and had now become that much more susceptible to emotions and showing them as a girl.  
  
"Howl," she began uneasily, unable to look directly into Howl's green eyes, and broke off.   
  
The knocker sounded abruptly from inside the castle.   
  
"Michael will get it," said Howl, but it became apparent that Michael would not, so Sophie hurriedly tried to leave Howl behind in the garden and answer it herself. Howl followed her – his long strides making time with her own.  
  
"Porthaven door!" Calcifer boomed, fizzling happily. And because he could, he jumped out of the grate and hovered over Howl's shoulder as Sophie opened the door. A small boy of about eight shuffled his feet and grinned at Sophie. He was missing his front teeth, she noticed, and resisted the impulse to affectionately muss up his hair. Already, she noted, she was gaining motherly instincts.   
  
"Please Miss, my dad wants to know if he can have a spell that will help him catch fish. This season hasn't been going so well- the fish must be hiding. But he says he can pay you back once he catches some fish and sells it." The boy looked up with big, brown eyes. His hands were in his rag-tattered coat, and one of his shoes was missing. Sophie's heart softened even more.  
  
"Just hold a minute." She went to the shelves and measured some yellow powder out of a blue jar. She could hear Howl and the little boy talking behind her.  
  
"What happened to Madame Sorceress?" asked the little boy, his missing teeth making it sound like he had a lisp.   
  
"That's her," said Howl, jerking his thumb back to indicate Sophie. Sophie froze, and spilled some powder on the counter. She quickly brushed it into the square of paper.  
  
"But she's pretty, and Madame Sorceress was old and had a cane!" The boy was clearly puzzled.  
  
"The wonders of magic," Howl said, under his breath.  
  
"Are you going to marry her?" asked the boy in all innocence. Sophie was appalled. She quickly twisted the square of paper, and rushed back to the door.  
  
"This will bring the fish in bucketloads. Your dad will never come back with an empty net." She handed the boy the powder, hoping to shoo him off, but the boy didn't leave.  
  
"Thank you," he said, grinning through his front teeth. Then he turned to Howl. "You should marry her," and nodded his head solemnly. "She's pretty and she likes you."  
  
More appalled than ever, Sophie hushed the boy and shooed him away. Once he had gone, and the door was closed, Sophie gave a quick sigh of relief. Howl looked at her bemusedly, but didn't say anything. She wondered if he would say anything. It was an awkward silence. Michael had the sense to creep off to another part of the castle, and Calcifer went back to his grate, spitting wood and shooting up orange sparks. Sophie wondered if she should say anything. Howl hadn't turned away from her, nor was he really looking at her. He was staring somewhere between her head and the door, as if he was mulling things over.   
  
"Howl," she said tentatively. When he didn't respond, she said his name louder.  
  
"Kingsbury door!" bellowed Calcifer, rearing up his head, spitting out purple sparks this time. Howl started. He reached around her to switch the door to red down, and opened it. Sophie hurried aside so as not to become squashed behind the door.  
  
It was the King's messenger, resplendent in a new powdered wig and ample perfume. Sophie nearly choked from the white dust that blew out of the wig into the castle when the door opened, and gagged from the putrid stench behind Howl's back, careful to not let the messenger see. Really, Sophie thought indignantly, fashion these days. It's a shame we're not allowed to hide when overdressed personages smelling of mold and mildew appear on your doorstep!  
  
The messenger had not brought a scroll today, but his question was still heavily verbose and ornate.   
  
I can say that in one sentence, Sophie thought to herself, exasperated. Have—you —finished —making—the--King's—seven—league—boots? No, I haven't. But Howl's reply was just as long-winded as the messenger's. Sophie rolled her eyes at the formality. Servants of the king these days were so stuffy and uptight.   
  
"By the way," the messenger said, breaking into colloquial speech. Sophie's eyes fluttered open, and she emerged from behind Howl to stare at the messenger. "Congratulations to you both. Miss soon-to-be Mrs. Pendragon, Wizard Pendragon. Good day." He curtly tilted his head to bid them good bye, and bounced off into the carriage flanked by horses.   
  
"Good heavens," Sophie said crossly. "What a nosy busy-body."  
  
Howl laughed at her, and the color rushed up to her cheeks. "I can think of someone else just like that," he remarked meaningfully, raising his eyebrows. "How hypocritical!"  
  
She flushed, and studied Howl's shoes. He had forgotten to change out of the bunny slippers.   
  
The rest of the afternoon went on just like that. Well-wishers who had once used the service of Howl's magic knocked on the door, having come by to ask for a spell and offer their congratulations. Some came by just to view Howl's soon-to-be bride, which made Sophie very cross indeed. She hated being gawked at. She didn't like to be rude either – it was bad for business, so she had to smile, hold her tongue, and nod her head.  
  
Plus, all this running around to the shelves, measuring out yellow, red, blue, and green powder, running to answer the door was giving her a headache. "I can't take anymore of this," she said, grumbling to Calcifer.  
  
Calcifer was tired too. His brilliant flames were looking a bit dull by then. He didn't give his customary grin and cackle either. He was looking a bit deflated, feeling just as Sophie felt. "We've never had so much business before," he remarked. "Or so much congratulations over a pending wedding."  
  
And that made Sophie all the more annoyed. "There won't be a wedding," she insisted. "Who cares if Howl said we're going to live happily ever after. I'm leaving tomorrow morning. Early morning so I can be out before another batch of well-wishers come by."  
  
She slumped into a chair, crossed her arms, and blew the air through her lips.   
  
The knocker sounded for the nineteenth time that day. "If you want to know," Calcifer said slyly, "It's the mansion door up."  
  
Sophie gave a sigh. "It's Fanny, I know it. And I bet she wants to discuss wedding plans." Sophie stood up. "I'm not here, alright? Or, I've taken a chill. No, then she will insist on seeing me. Confound it all! Just tell her the truth, Calcifer. I'm overwhelmed. I'll be in my room if you need me." She began to march to her room, determinedly. Then she stopped and turned. "On the contrary, I'll be going to sleep. Snoring heavily," she added. With that, Sophie tramped into her room, shut the door, and lay on her bed. But she did not snore heavily. Nor did she go to sleep. Rather her mind was going round and round and round the day's events, that by the time she did go to sleep, night had fallen, and her brain had wearied out. 


	4. which includes a bedroom scene, and Soph...

Chapter 4: Which includes a bedroom scene and Sophie finally does leave  
By Calcifersgrl  
  
Author's Note: Do not be put off by the title – this is a G (maybe PG later on) rated story. Hehe. Anyway, just got 4 wisdom teeth pulled, and am trying to write this story with two ice packs pressed against my cheeks. Yeah, this sucks and hurts!!! Well, I'll spare you the personal bit of my life. Hope you like Chapter 4. Oh, and please remember to read and review.  
  
To my readers so far. Thank you for the nice reviews – it's so nice to know I'm appreciated.  
  
One last thing: when I change Microsoft Word into a plain text document – how do you keep italics and bolds and such? The format is being a pain – and it won't let me make emphasis where I want it!  
Well, on with the story . . . .  
  
***  
  
Perhaps, Sophie had thought that being tired would warrant her a good night's sleep devoid of dreams, but her sleep was far from peaceful. Not only did she dream . . . but her dreams were troubled.   
  
Dreams of a Waste that was not wholly different from the Witch's Wasteland. It had once been a kingdom. Snow falling – Sophie had never seen white snow – small snowflakes dropped on her tongue, sweet. And it melted on her tongue tip – the acidic taste, fire, her tongue was on fire . . . A golden explosion. And suddenly she was in a palace. The type of palaces you only find in stories of enchantment. Golden balustrades and climbing roses and . . . Sophie stopped looking around. The hypnotic crooning was getting louder. Come to me, my love. Come to me. Intrigued, Sophie followed the sound. A winter throne, ice, snow swirling. A pale, shivering man, kneeling on the frosted floor. Snowflakes in his blonde hair. Come to me, my love. Come to me. It was more than just crooning. It was a command. Sophie watched as the blonde man struggled against getting up, but there was magic in his feet that propelled him stiffly forward. And then Sophie saw her. Seated upon a clawed ice throne, holding a scepter of ice. She was quietly crooning to the man, and as she did so, her fingers deftly wound in a silver ball of string. The man, bound by the silver thread, came closer and closer. Sophie watched, frozen in horror, as the Witch reeled Howl in like a fish, unwilling to be caught, but caught nonetheless.  
  
"Howl," she cried, springing out from behind a silver column.  
  
Slowly, he turned. Ever so slowly. A blank, unseeing face with an icicle dangling from one ear lobe.  
  
She screamed.  
  
"Why hello, Miss Hatter," said the Witch.  
***   
  
"Why hello, Miss Hatter," said the Witch. It was the Witch, Sophie could see, even if she no longer had sheets of black hair, black eyes, and a throbbing voice. The witch had long fair hair that draped over her shoulders to the waist. A thin golden circlet lay upon her brow. A slim rose-pink gown fitted over the Witch's body, revealing a figure that Sophie could not help being jealous of.  
  
"Good gracious!" Sophie exclaimed before she could help herself. And even after the words had sprung from her mouth, she did not cup her hands over her face. She would not be mortified or embarrassed in front of the Witch. Instead, she continued: "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Fifty years old, at the least, and you're still prancing around in that little slip of a dress!"  
  
The Witch had turned as pink as the gown, and the rather unbecoming flush started pouring over her cheeks. "You know, Miss Hatter," the Witch began quite pleasantly, underlying her real intent, "If I were you, I wouldn't be so saucy. You must realize I have complete control in these dreams. I might do something not so nice to you if you aren't careful." The voice had begun to lilt and play about, rather like a flute. It was a pleasant, melodious sound, that made Sophie want to sink right down into the fluffy clouds, and stroll on air . . . .  
  
Sophie snapped her head up. "Oh no you don't!" she cried, moving menacingly toward the Witch, before she even realized she was moving.  
  
The Witch backed away. "I have never liked being threatened by you. You always ruin my plans. I mean to have Howl. Were it not for your untimely interference, he would be mine already. Be a good girl, run along now. Play at going out to seek your fortune. Leave sorceress matters to Howl and myself."  
  
"Wouldn't you like that!" Sophie cried, spitefully. "Wouldn't you just like me to leave Howl in your grasp! Reel him in like a fish, you won't!"  
  
The hungry look in the Witch's blue eyes had grown. Sophie became conscious that her comment about fish was probably not the best analogy. The Witch did look as if she really would eat someone at the moment. But then the malice and hunger died from her narrow eyes. The Witch smiled, replacing all the doubt and fear back on Sophie's shoulders like a huge anvil. Sophie sagged under the weight.   
  
"I think," the Witch said in a falsely amiable tone, "You'd best wake up if you could. You see," she continued as her image blurred and began to fade away, "I've told you that I have complete control in dreams. I've got my claws in him, Miss Hatter, and if you try to yank those claws out, not only will his heart come out, but I'll see to it, that I get yours in the end too. So wake up! Wake up if you can!"  
  
Sophie was left alone in a grey void. I must wake up, she thought panicking. I must help Howl. And she bowled through the grayness, feeling the power of the Witch trying to hold her back. It was as if Howl had raised another wind, and she was trying to run above the hot grit that swarmed about her knees. Keep going, she told herself, determinedly. You're going to wake up, Sophie Hatter. Just because you are the eldest of three, doesn't mean you're a failure. Unbidden, Howl's voice sounded in her head: "Garbage. You just never stop to think. . . I was relying on you being too jealous to let that demon near the place "  
  
With one last rush of speed, Sophie wrenched herself out of the shifting grey, out of the Witch's power, and awoke.  
  
Tangled in the bedcovers, Sophie found herself trembling and covered with sweat. "Botheration!" she grumbled to herself. "How I wish these dreams weren't real!" But she did swing her legs over the bedside, don on a robe, fasten the belt, and sprinted up the stairs that led to Howl's bedroom.  
  
She almost slammed herself against the door in her rush to get it open, but then thought better of it. Cautiously, she turned the doorknob, poked her head in, let herself in quietly and closed the door behind her. There was Howl, not snoring at all, sleeping peacefully in his bed. She inched closer to stand by Howl. It was then that she noticed that he was wearing a thin sleeveless white shirt.  
  
"Good gracious!" she murmured, her eyes going wide. Then, mortified by her reaction, she said forcefully, "You're going to catch a cold if you don't wear more clothes." Howl made a noise that sounded like an agreement. He turned in his sleep, facing Sophie. Sophie jumped and scurried towards his window. It had suddenly dawned upon her what an awkward situation she had placed herself in. Here, she was in her robe, and Howl in that flimsy shirt – if you could call it that – in Howl's bedroom. Sophie blushed at the inappropriateness of the situation. Fanny would threaten to faint, she thought with an alarmed giggle. And then wave her parasol and warn her about shameless girls.   
  
She glanced out Howl's window. It overlooked into Wales – a neat square garden of a place. The darkness outlined the child's metal swing, and the bright yellow moon managed to peep his way through the hazy night, half hidden behind the dark lumpy hills. She recalled the last time she had been in the room. Howl had been sick at the time, delirious with fever, and claiming to see spots. Spiders, she thought. He so loved his eight-legged critters. "Try, try, try again," Howl had said. "I keep trying. But I brought it on myself by making a bargain some years ago, and I know I shall never be able to love anyone properly now." She had broken his ill-made bargain with Calcifer, but it was still nebulous as to whether Howl could love properly. He had not kissed her, or even made an attempt to yet. Neither had he uttered the simplest of romantic words – it was only three words: I love you - how hard could it be?  
  
He needed time, she reminded herself. The Witch had him under her spell – Sophie only too well remembered her first dream where Howl cowered, shivering and near naked, bent to the will of the Witch. Yes, she meant to do whatever was necessary to save him from that shape changing hussy.   
  
Behind her, she could hear Howl's quiet murmurs. They rose in a crescendo and subsided, creating a sort of musical pattern. But then he screamed out –   
  
Sophie rushed to his side. "Howl," she said severely, trying to hold down his fiercely flailing arms. "Stop it." He was thrashing about – his eyes like the jelly whites of a fish who knows his life is ebbing away. Or perhaps, it was more like that of a deer – a wide-eyed buck, caught in a frenzy of light. "Howl," Sophie exclaimed. "Howl, stop it! Stop, you big baby! Hush, Howl. Hush. It's okay now. I won't let the Witch get you. Hush, please."  
  
He stirred, and his thrashing, as violently as it had come about him, abated. His whitened knuckles relaxed and regained color. His fists fell to his side, limp. His eyelids shut.  
  
Sophie let out her breath. "She had you, didn't she?" she whispered quietly to him, leaning over him, his face hidden in the shadow of hers. "I bet she was trying to pull you in, with that awful throbbing voice of hers, that hypnotic crooning. Well, you keep resisting. Don't you give into her." She whispered all sorts of endearing encouragements, before she suddenly had a funny feeling that she wasn't the only one awake in the room anymore.  
  
She glanced down at Howl, whose eyes were still edged in sleep, but open, nonetheless.  
  
Quickly, she released her arms from around his, and stepped backwards warily.  
  
Howl blinked, his green eyes lighting up the darkness, and rubbed his eyes. Then, his eyes seemed to gain clarity as they focused on the female figure standing above his bed. "Sophie," he murmured, the sleep thick in his voice, slurring his speech, "What are you doing in my bedroom?"   
  
"Oh," Sophie said, embarrassed. He was looking at her, perplexed – somewhat awake and somewhat asleep, trying to figure out why she was in her room. She took a few steps forward, and seized his cold hand in one of her own. With the other hand, she unsuccessfully tried to smooth his hair down. "Hush, Howl. You had a bad nightmare. Go to sleep." She bent down and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead, just like her father had done to her when she was younger. "Good night Howl, and sleep well."  
  
She tiptoed out of his room and quietly closed the door behind her. Hopefully, Howl would not remember her little nightly visit to his room in the morning. She slunk into bed, barely having enough time to pull up the covers; she was asleep before her head even hit the pillow.  
***  
  
It was time to go; the certainty pulled at her. She grumbled and turned over in her sleep, bringing down the pillow over her ears to muffle the certainty.  
  
And then it dawned on her. "Confound it!" Sophie grunted, bolting out of bed. "I've got to leave now!!!" She hurriedly stuffed her pillow and blanket into her knapsack, ripped the tangles out of her red hair, and opened the door of her cubbyhole. Good. No one else seemed to be about. The living room was cold – which meant that Calcifer was also asleep. Even better, Sophie thought. She just wanted to leave quietly, no fuss, no bother. The last thing she wanted was a scene with Howl.  
  
She did say goodbye to Michael, who was a rather nice boy and someday soon, her brother-in-law – he and Martha were well suited for each other. Michael only stirred in his sleep after she'd kissed his cheek. But as she walked past the grate, she realized that she didn't want to leave quietly. Well, at least, she wanted someone to acknowledge her departure. So, she bent down to the smoldering ashes and the small flame that danced upon it, picked up her dried seven league boots, tied them to the side of her knapsack, and said, "Good bye, Calcifer."  
  
The flame burst, and suddenly the scowling face of the fire demon was looking back at her. "I wondered," he said grumbling, "whether you'd have the decency to say goodbye." And then his tone rapidly shifted from resentful to wistful. "Are you sure you'd rather not stay and marry Howl? I know it's not the ideal family, rather unconventional, I'll admit, but can you imagine life in this castle without you, Sophie?" His green flames danced agitatedly as he appealed to her earnestly. "Howl's going to be a mess if you leave," Calcifer warned. "The least you could do is say goodbye to him. It's called common courtesy."  
  
"Since when do fire demons know about common courtesy?" asked Sophie off-handedly.   
  
"Well, it would have been a nice thought, Sophie," said a voice from atop the stairs. "But it seems that you don't know common courtesy either. I suppose you would have liked to leave without telling me, Miss No-Fuss-and-Bother." Howl looked at her coldly, his green eyes not the least bit happy.  
  
Oh dear, Sophie thought and bit her lip. Here it comes: chaos, drama, and most likely green slime.   
  
She sighed, and reached for the doorknob, intent on leaving before Howl could get her stuck cleaning up his slime, and feeling sorry for him. There was a sudden clash as Howl appeared in front of Sophie, and managed to hit his knee on the door. "Ow!" he yelled, clutching his bruised leg with one hand, the other holding the doorknob. His yells were reduced to a sort of anxious panic. "What are you in such a hurry for, Sophie? I just want to talk to you."  
  
From the side, Sophie heard Calcifer murmur, "And this is where I leave you two alone." Calcifer plunged into his grate in a flurry of blue sparks, and sat back to watch the fireworks.   
  
"To avoid such a talk," said Sophie sullenly, but let her hand fall from the doorknob, out from beneath Howl's grasp.   
  
He stared at her, astonished; then, he too let his hand fall from the brass doorknob.  
  
Sophie stared at him, her impassiveness a mask to try to keep her quivering insides from spilling out.  
  
He was bleary-eyed, the sleep still not rubbed all the way from his eyes. There were dark circles under his eyes, proof that he did not enjoy a good night's sleep. His blonde hair wasn't combed, as was usual for the past few days. Furthermore, he had not stopped to put on a robe or his bunny slipper. He was still in that thin white shirt she had seen him in yesterday night. Sophie ducked her head, blushing, only lifting her head when the redness left her face. From the corner of her eye, she saw Calcifer give an approving smirk.   
  
Howl stretched his arms out toward her, but they didn't touch her; they flopped to his side, uselessly. "Sophie," he said, "You didn't really think you'd leave without saying goodbye, did you?" Then in a wheedling tone, he asked, "Do you have to leave?"   
  
She didn't know what to say, as usual, and wasn't sure if there was anything she could come up with to say at that moment. She didn't trust herself to speak. A torrent of words was being pushed back and held under by her tongue. Should she speak . . . she didn't know if she'd have the strength to walk out of the door. Sophie just nodded dumbly, feeling the sharp pangs in her heart again.  
  
Then, to the surprise of Calcifer, to her surprise, and probably Howl's too, Howl enfolded her in his arms and kissed her. The kiss didn't last very long – but it burned – burned Sophie inside out. Her knees threatened to buckle under her, but she reminded herself that she was made of stronger stuff than jelly. She held herself upright, still surprised and somewhat breathless.   
  
Howl was looking a bit stunned at his own audacity. Then he shrugged and smiled. "That's to give you something to remember me by."  
  
Sophie still didn't say anything. The tears were starting to gather in her eyes, the aching in her chest was becoming unbearable – she was going to melt, if he didn't let her leave soon.  
  
Discomforted by Sophie's muteness, Howl said, somewhat irritated, "You mean you won't miss me at all? Sophie, please say something."  
  
"Howl . . ." There, she'd manage to say something, but it wasn't what she would have liked to say.  
  
But it was enough for him. He grasped bother of her hands and said solemnly, "Leave, but come back. Come back to me." Sophie suddenly stiffened, as if she'd turned to stone. The Witch had crooned the words: Come back to me in her dream last night. But Howl didn't notice. He was looking directly into her eyes, his green eyes feverish and moist.   
  
So she promised. She was going to leave, but she would come back to Howl.   
  
And then, impulsively, she raised herself on her toes to kiss him on the cheek – but he turned at the last moment, and she found herself kissing him on the mouth. She broke away, hastily, then said accusingly, "You did that on purpose."  
  
Howl merely smiled bleakly. "So I did . . . Sophie . . . ." He left the question hanging in the air.  
  
Sophie shook her head, and turned the door knob. "Good bye, Howl," she said softly, and then walked out of the door.   
  
She was crossing over the field of heather, her trusty stick in one hand, her knapsack on her back, going one way while the Moving Castle trod in the other direction. She had been expecting it, so she wasn't surprised to hear the amplified cries coming from the castle. She did not turn around or stop in her walking. The anguished cries finally did subside into heartbroken sobs. If the sounds ever did cease, Sophie knew nothing about it. The Moving Castle was less than a speck in the horizon by noon. And after Sophie had donned the seven league boots and taken a few awkward steps to Upper Folding Valley, the Moving Castle had disappeared completely. Good bye, Howl, Sophie thought as she surveyed the land around her.   
  
Sophie was completely without a clue as to how she could defeat the Witch. She had reasoned that the best thing to do was consult Lettie and perhaps Mrs. Fairfax. Lettie was practical and almost a fully-accomplished witch, and also if such should happen, she could comfort her elder sister should Sophie suddenly become engulfed in a mad rush of tears and blubbering.  
  
Yes, Sophie thought, as the sun began to set. She shielded her eyes against the dazzling array of gold, orange, and red. She definitely wanted to talk to Lettie, and she wouldn't mind some chatter with kindly, honey-smelling Mrs. Fairfax. And some honeyed tea would be most heavenly.  
  
"Drat," she exclaimed, as the boot came off her foot. "It is indeed remarkable how you can go a few steps in these boots and still land on a cowpat." She hardily rubbed the boot against the grass. When she was satisfied, she picked both boots up, and attached them to a cord on her knapsack.   
  
She spotted Mrs. Fairfax's house, shining like a mirage, in the middle of the common, and set out towards it. 


	5. In which the Witch explains the rules of...

Chapter 5: In which the Witch explains the rules of the game, and Sophie realizes what a mess she has made of things  
  
By Calcifersgrl  
  
Author's Note: I do apologize that I haven't uploaded anything for a while, but I've been busy with school work and hit hard by a case of writer's block. It's not as good as it could have been, and perhaps, it moves a little too fast, but there's nothing I can do about it. So, sorry in advance!  
  
To my reviewers:  
Nabz: I really do wish they'd put up a DWJ section. Does anyone know how to suggest one? It was kinda weird putting up a fic about HMC, instead of for the Dalemark Quartet ...  
  
Hyzenthay and librastargirl: I did know there was a sequel to HMC. It's too bad that it only features Howl and Sophie briefly. When I read Castle in the Air, I never seemed to connect Howl with the genie. The genie seems much more selfish then Howl – but I can see a slight resemblance between the two.   
Did you know that if DWJ were to write another story about Sophie, Howl and the gang – it would feature Morgan (who grows up with both Sophie and Howl's faults), Lettie's baby, and the half human/half djinn children of the fat nieces and Dalzel?  
  
To the rest of my readers: Thanx for the compliments! See, without the reviews, I would never have even made it to the fifth chapter!!!   
  
***  
  
Sophie took hold of the brass knocker head, shaped very curiously like a bee, a honeybee most like it, and rapped once firmly. The door caved after the first push and slowly creaked open, revealing a thin sliver of darkness. It was odd, she thought. Mrs. Fairfax had forgotten to lock the door . . . . Sophie shifted the pack, her shoulders aching from the weight. She rapped the knocker two times more just to alert Mrs. Fairfax and Lettie of her arrival, pushed the door wide, and gingerly stepped inside the house.   
  
She admired the homey comforts of the sparkling clean house and the faint, but rather pleasant scent of honey wafting about. It was a nice change from home, she thought hazily, and then hastily corrected herself. The Castle, she thought. That was what she meant. She shoved the memories that flooded her mind away. It was decidedly difficult to round up stray recollections of Howl, Calcifer, Michael, the customers, and the spiders, even. She found herself floundering in reminisces, and blushed catching herself thinking about Howl, for he was in her thoughts, more often than not. The more she told herself to stop thinking about him, the more she would think about him. Howl, even in her thoughts, would slither away from the gathered heap of memories and pop up when she was least aware.  
  
"Botheration!" she yelped, as Howl's sunny smile swam into view. "I can't seem to be rid of you! Tongue and cheek!" She snorted, hmphuffed, and muttered to herself. "Charming, my foot," she said derisively, with another grunt. "He has more faults than I can count with all twenty fingers and toes. Slitherer-outer! Coward! . . . my Prince Charming, huh!" With that, she grappled with the last memories, stuffed them in the farthest corner of her mind, and put them under lock and key.  
  
"No more of that nonsense," she said sternly to herself, as if saying it aloud could make it true. "I am moving on with my life, and I am not to think of them."   
  
She set her attention on finding the inhabitants of the house; after all, that was why she had come. She carefully shed her boots and brushed whatever dirt clung to her clothes off so as not to drip all over Mrs. Fairfax's exotic carpets, and then left her pack by the staircase balustrade. She squared her shoulders, determined to keep her mind away from him, and tramped up the unfamiliar stairs.   
  
When she didn't find a trace of the two upstairs, she thought Mrs. Fairfax and Lettie might be working on a spell in the kitchen or in the backyard, but after making a thorough search of the house, it was evident that the two were nowhere to be found. Feeling rather disheartened and neglected, Sophie slumped down on an elegant cushioned chair.  
  
This was just what she needed. It was most likely that Mrs. Fairfax and Lettie had flown out on an urgent business trip to who-knew-where. Sophie simply could not be angry with them because they hadn't known she was coming. When she had set out to Upper Folding Valley for solace and a hint of how to begin her quest, she had somehow expected them to be on their doorstep, awaiting her arrival. She had envisioned Mrs. Fairfax with her butter-colored tresses and motherly concern waiting to enfold her in her plump arms, and Lettie patting her back and sharing her worries. But that vision burst. Here she was, alone, somewhat miserable, and still without a clue as to begin seeking her fortune.   
  
Sophie straightened, feeling rather put off for moping so, and went to the kitchen. It was thick with the overbearing fragrance of honey, so dense that she almost choked. Waving a hand in front of her to shoo away the sweetened air, she made her way to the bubbling cauldron in the fireplace. Sophie frowned. Mrs. Fairfax hadn't even bothered to smother the fire out, a very dangerous thing to do. Surely a grown witch like her knew better than to leave a boiling cauldron in the empty house!  
  
With growing unease, Sophie hurriedly doused the fire with a small jug of water, and thought. Could it mean something? The unlocked door, the fire, not to mention what she had seen upstairs – everything still in order. The clothes were folded in precision, Mrs. Fairfax's containers of honey were lined up in neat rows, and the honeybees buzzed in their hive, echoing the same frustration that Sophie felt. That was the oddest thing of all. Had Mrs. Fairfax meant to go somewhere, she would not have left her honeybees behind.  
  
She stiffened. Was this the Witch's doing? She smelled something foul abroad, and it was definitely more than the sickeningly sweet kitchen scent that was causing her guts to churn. But she slackened her grip upon herself and asked herself how the Witch could be behind this. Thinking of the Witch made Sophie involuntarily shudder. She did not doubt for a moment that the Witch no longer existed, and she only too well recalled the Witch's power in her dreams. Might the Witch's powers have extended beyond dreams and have reached its foul fingers into reality? Sophie shuddered to think of what the Witch might do to revenge herself upon those who had defeated her. She consoled herself with the thought that Howl and Calcifer could easily fend for themselves against the Witch's might. But Mrs. Fairfax and Lettie? . . . .  
  
You're wrong about that, said a voice inside her head. It dripped scorn and malevolence, and Sophie knew only too well who the voice belonged to.   
"How did you get in here!" she cried aloud. "You troubled my dreams with your disturbing presence before, but now you have the audacity to haunt my waking moments too?!?"  
  
She felt the Witch's cold smirk, veiled behind cold, slanted eyes. "Fool," the Witch said icily, "I have only temporarily decided to tap into your head. I do have that power now, thanks to Howl. But I have decided that I need to enlighten you. After all," the Witch sneered, "there is no point in playing the game and capturing the prizes if the player doesn't know she is to play the game."  
  
"And what if I don't want to play?" Sophie asked, half to herself. She wondered whether she was going crazy, hearing voices, no less the voice of the Witch, in Mrs. Fairfax's living room.  
  
"Oh, you'll play," said the Witch. "You'll play once you know what is to be gained, or in your case, lost. Let me enlighten you, Miss Hatter."  
  
"You already said that," Sophie pointed out crossly. "If you're going to 'enlighten me,' then go ahead and do it."  
  
The Witch glowered, her porcelain face pinching at the corners. Her hair was back to that odd improbable shade of black, but she had kept the thin gold circlet from her last appearance. "Don't," she warned, a slender finger poking out of wide, gauzy sleeves.   
  
Sophie sullenly retreated and waited for the Witch to explain the rules of the game.   
  
"Fool of a girl," the Witch muttered, the unbecoming scowl pasted on her face. "Insolence will be rewarded in time."  
  
"Oh confound it all! I don't care," cried Sophie. "What right do you have to impose on my life like this! I'm trying to start my life over and seek my fortune properly. I have had enough of witchery and magics and people like you!"   
  
"But I," the Witch purred dangerously, "haven't had enough of you and the like." Her voice was steely, thin, and cold enough to shatter the weakest of minds. But Sophie wasn't weak, and she wasn't about to be bullied by such a hateful creature.  
  
Sophie glared into the living room, her fists clenched at her sides. It was a nuisance not to be able to yell at the Witch face to face. Coward, she fumed silently.  
  
"Permit me to gloat, Miss Hatter," the Witch's voice broke into her silent thoughts, and she smirked once more, "and call you a gullible fool. I never expected my plan to work so well, but then again, I overestimated you. I thought that such a sensible girl could see right through my scheme and spoil it, but oh, how you've played right into my hands. Makes everything soo much easier," she drawled, slipping into a disdainful tone.   
  
Sophie eyed her coldly, hardening her features into that gorgon-like stare Howl had teased her about mercilessly, to hide her somersaulting nerves. "What do you mean by that?" she asked. "Enlighten me." She threw the words back at the Witch through clenched teeth.  
  
The Witch could never refuse an offer to boast, and she did indeed enlighten Sophie. "Were it not for your leaving the castle, I would never have been able to sink my claws into Howl," here Sophie could not stifle her gasp; the Witch tittered and continued condescendingly, "Oh yes. Poor Heartless Howl was miserable and red-eyed when I snitched his Castle and everyone else in it from this world. He had let his guard down – and what better time to strike than that?"  
  
Sophie felt her breath whoosh out, the Witch's words rained like needles upon her ears. She was trembling, and she couldn't stop. She closed her eyes and let her hands rest limply against her sides. So this was it. This was what it had all come to. She had thought to leave Howl in order to save him, but instead, had left Howl and sent him to death at the Witch's hands. The Witch was going to kill Howl for sure. She wouldn't even think about sparing him, seeing as he had bested her twice.   
  
Sophie bit her lip to stop the tears from coming. She was not going to cry in front of the Witch. She was not . . . her fists clenched, blood soaked her mouth . . . a tear slid from her eye, and another, and another . . . .   
  
She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand.   
  
"It was easy to take him. Easier still to take everyone else whom you love, Miss Hatter. Oh yes," the Witch added, seeing Sophie's eyes widen in horror and fury, "I took that dratted witch of a sister of yours, your amusing stepmother, Wizard Suliman, Mrs. Fairfax, and more. So how about, Miss Hatter? A game that pits your strength against mine. The stake? Everyone you care about - and of course yourself." The Witch tittered.  
  
As if that's funny, Sophie thought, swallowing her rage.  
  
"Should you lose?" said the Witch, "Well, there is more to my ambitious plans than just your destruction. I have taken the King and his brat of a daughter, and the entire palace staff. Ingary shall have a queen – and by that," the Witch chuckled in a low voice, "I do mean me."  
  
"So wake up, Miss Hatter. Wake up soon. The clock is ticking. The longer your dear ones are in my hold, the weaker they become." Images of the blank, unseeing Howl filled Sophie's mind. Terror seized her.  
  
The Witch smiled cruelly. "You will find three magic beans in your pocket when you wake up. You will plant them beneath a cactus that's missing its needles, and then we shall see, Madame Sorceress." The Witch spit out the title, making a travesty of Sophie's abilities. Sophie vaguely wondered how the Witch had come to know of the name.  
  
"Let the games begin," said the Witch in a soft, but sly voice. She blew a cold kiss to Sophie, and the kiss floated to her, taking root on Sophie's heart. She could feel its imprint on her heart, already beginning to disperse its chill throughout her body.  
  
"Oh," cried the Witch with undisguised pleasure. "Did I forget to mention an extra challenge that I've added for you? Should you fail, your heart will freeze your entire being. And I will be there to witness your demise, Miss Hatter. I shall laugh when you fail, and once your heart has frozen, I will shatter you into tiny fragments."  
  
"So wake up Miss Hatter for the seconds are already ticking in my favor," said the Witch and with finality, she vanished.  
  
And Sophie woke up, realizing for the first time that she had fallen asleep on Mrs. Fairfax's chair. "That better not have been a real dream," she said, and plunged her hand into her pocket. Her hand bumped into three smooth items – Beans, she thought – and drew them out into the light. Just as the Witch had promised, three red, slightly misshapen beans resided in her hand, brimming with magic.   
  
What she should do was follow the Witch's instructions and find a cactus without needles.  
  
But, looking at the beans in her hand sent a jolt of alarm up her spine and she cried out: "Good Heavens! What a mess I've made." She was tempted to wallow on the chair and mope, but she never liked crying and now that she was in trouble, she didn't think it was proper time to start. One of these days, she would find the perfect occasion to cry, but now was definitely not one of them.   
  
She was seized with a sudden grim determination to ferret out the Witch's hiding place and free the captives, but first, she would see if the Witch had really pinched the castle. That was how she came to be wearing her seven-league boots once more, the pack on her back, and zipping the few steps to the hills above Market Chipping.   
  
The Castle will be there, she told herself, and she willed herself to believe it. She could see the four thin turrets stabbing the sky, the tall black castle grandly drifting over the heather. She would catch up with the door and see Calcifer still spitting firewood and hovering over Howl and Michael's shoulder as they put together another spell for the King. And when she saw Howl, she would tell him she loved him, and that she meant to stay for as long as he would have her. But when she arrived there, the hills were bare.   
  
The realization set in, and she felt herself tottering backward. Instead of taking a step backward, she let herself fall on her behind. The hills were bare. Sophie closed her eyes, the bitterness of the situation fresh on her mind. Howl had told her he would wait for her to come back to him. But she had fallen for the Witch's petty trick, and now the hills were bare, and the castle was gone.   
  
She sat among the heather for a long time, her knees curled up, her arms wrapped tightly around them. She had vowed not to cry, and she hadn't. But the bile in her throat, in her heart, stung as much as salty tears would.  
  
The noonday sun had begun to set, and Sophie reluctantly gathered herself and her belongings together. The desert was inland, so it meant recapping her journey through Upper Folding Valley. Zip-zip. Zip-zip-zip-zip. The landscape blurred past her, fields passed beneath her feet, and finally, she landed on hot, hot sand.   
  
Sophie winced from the sizzling sound her boots made on the sand, and shielded her face from the scorching rays. It would be most like the Witch, she thought, to send her out into the desert where she would most likely die of heatstroke. She was a fool to have taken the Witch's word for it. Again. The Witch had already misled her countless times, but she had, once again, done the Witch's bidding. Like a puppet. Like a proper fool.  
  
"I'm the eldest," she grumbled, "I'm a failure. I'm not supposed to triumph against the Witch. I'm supposed to – uh – turn to stone, or into gingerbread, or into a frog. I'm not supposed to rescue everyone and succeed." She proceeded further into the hot dunes, reduced to hopping quickly from one foot to the other for only minimal scorching.  
  
A little voice nagged at her. "I know," Sophie said, "I'm the only one left. She's angry at me and wants to avenge the wrongs I've done to her by hurting others. I know. I did say that I wanted to go seek my fortune, but I didn't mean it. It's what everyone says when they leave home. But I did think I was entitled to a little thing called 'happily ever after.'"   
  
Sophie sighed and shifted her pack. "This is ridiculous," she said, addressing the sand, and made a few jerky motions with her hands. "It would be easier to walk normally if I didn't have to hop. Really, you needn't make yourself so hot." To her surprise, it worked. The sand beneath her boots felt relatively cool, and she was no longer hopping. Further trying her luck, she asked the sun to not burn with such a vivid intensity. It complied. Satisfied, she scoured the dunes for cactuses.  
  
There must have been a thousand cactuses out there, and all of them had needles! She was thoroughly frustrated as she spied the thousandth cactus and raced toward it, only to discover it had needles. She eyed the needles thoughtfully. She was a witch, wasn't she? She had asked the sand and the sun to cool down for her, hadn't she? Perhaps, the needles . . . .  
  
"Good afternoon," she said politely to the cactus. The politeness was a safety precaution; one could never be too careful around things with sharp, pointy things adhered it its outsides. "Lovely sun, isn't it? I was wondering if you could, perhaps, retract your needles just for a moment. You can put them back," she added hastily, "but I need to plant three beans beside a cactus without needles, and I was hoping you'd be amenable to my suggestion."  
  
Sophie caught her breath as the cactus seemed to bend its head, and suddenly, the sharp little needles disappeared beneath its surface. "Thank you," she said, and pulled out the magic beans. Digging a little hole in the sand, she buried the beans and stood back to watch.   
  
With a roar, a green vine, as thick as a tree trunk, erupted from the sand, uprooting the cactus, and spurted on toward the blue sky. It spiraled out of the ground, creating its own miniature sandstorm, as smaller vines erupted out of its sides. Sophie coughed out a mouthful of sand, and shook out the sand from her hair. Then she proceeded to brush off the remaining sand from herself. She looked over at the uprooted cactus and bit her lip. Okay, so she wasn't that good of a witch yet. But once this adventure was over, she would take Howl up on his offer and let him teach her how to manage her power. Howl. She looked up at the massive vine, towering magnificently over everything in the vicinity, which wasn't much – just her and an endless stretch of sand and cactuses. She squinted – it seemed to extend beyond the clouds. Howl was up there somewhere. So was the Witch.  
  
"A game is it?" she murmured. "Well, there are people at stake who mean a great deal to me. I do not mean in the least bit to lose. No, I mean to win."  
  
With that, she grabbed a handful of vine, tugged on it to be sure of its strength, and began to climb.   
  
***  
2nd Author's Note:   
What do you think about the direction of the story? It's been getting farther and farther away from DWJ's stuff . . . . I thought it'd be cool since HMC had a lot of cool fairytale twists – never mind. I'd rather not give anything away, since I may change it in any case.  
  
Hopefully with the Thanksgiving Break coming up, I will get the 6th chapter up. I think it might be called: CH 6: In which Sophie enters the Giant's Castle and meets the Masterman.  
  
(I can't believe I wrote this instead of studying for my huge US History test!!!! – but hey, it was a lot more fun than studying.)  
  
Also, if you want me to e-mail you when I have updates – please leave your e-mail address. 


	6. In which Sophie climbs the beanstalk and...

CH 6: In which Sophie climbs the beanstalk and gets very, very wet  
By Calcifersgrl  
  
Author's note: I'm a bad, bad, bad girl. Instead of studying for my finals (which I do have in December cuz my school's strange – but hey, I like having no schoolwork to worry about over my Christmas break), I have been writing this up.   
I love seeing the new HMC fanfics popping up in this section!!! Rock on Amaliia Milan, ChocolateEclar, and Sakura!!!  
To the rest of the readers: thank you for your positive comments and I hope you'll like this chapter even though it's short. (Sorry, I've got my grades to worry about!)   
Last thing: a plea to the readers: those of you who don't believe you can write HMC fanfics, just do it and you will be able to write one. Sorry, I sound really whiny (am apologizing for that) but it'd be great to read more HMC fanfics. = )  
Now on with the show . . . er chapter 6  
  
***  
  
She must have been climbing for hours. The thick vines rubbed uncomfortably against her newly callused palms, beads of sweat gathered on her forehead, and Sophie wished for all the world that she could stop and rest. She chanced to glance down and view her progress, only to feel a sort of nausea sweep over her. The ground looked surprisingly distant, and Sophie was all too aware how high up she was. She shuddered and turned her face to the beanstalk.  
  
"I hate heights," Sophie moaned, through gritted teeth, but then screwed her face into a mask of determination. "Oh! I refuse to be deterred by her. And I refuse to let these hands let go of this vine until I reach the top of the beanstalk. Do you hear that, vines? My hands are sticking to you until we reach the top, and not before." To test her spell, she gingerly tried to detach one hand, but it wouldn't let go of the vine it gripped. "Oh," Sophie said with a somewhat delayed delight. At least she wouldn't have to worry about falling off.  
  
With a gulp, she tried to force her mind off of the image of her falling at dizzying heights to the desert sand. And with that she continued to climb, her hands aching, but magically ensorcelled to keep going.  
  
Hours later, she emerged from clouds, somewhat damp, but glad that she could now rest. The beanstalk ended at the top of the grayish white clouds, and as the beanstalk had fulfilled its requirement in their magical agreement, Sophie's hands were released. She breathed a sigh of relief, and flexed her fingers. They seemed to be in perfect working order.  
  
And then she slowly pulled herself up to her feet, painfully aware of the aching in his legs and arms. The soreness almost rivaled the daily creaks and aches she had endured as an old woman, except in her ancient form, the pain had been because of her brittle bones, and not mere muscle fatigue.  
  
A thought occurred to Sophie; she had used her magic to keep her from tumbling off the beanstalk. Surely, she could expel the exhaustion that she felt? "I am not sore," she repeated firmly to herself. "I am energized, I feel fine."  
  
Squaring her shoulders smartly, Sophie turned and surveyed the place she had just entered. She could see no more than five feet in front of her; the rest was shrouded in a thick grey mist, which was rather shapeless and shifted endlessly. It reminded her strongly of the gray fog that separated Wales from the door in the Moving Castle.   
  
"Another one of the old bat's tricks, eh?" she murmured quietly, and plunged into the unknown.   
  
It wasn't unpleasant. She was already damp from her ascent through the clouds; a little more dampness would not hurt her. But she was not prepared for the torrent of hail that followed the smattering of heavy rain drops. She yelped when the first cold drop fell on her nose, and smiled grimly as the downpour beat down on her mercilessly. "It gets even better," said Sophie grumbling. "First the Witch sends me out into the desert to roast to death, and now I shall catch a cold." She sounded ridiculous, even to her own ears. She really did need to sort out her priorities, but really, colds were the worst thing invented in history. All that snuffling and sneezing, and throbbing head pains and wracking coughs – she'd take on the desert any day over a, she shuddered, cold. With her mind on colds, her thoughts once again, as she could not help herself in any way, turned to Howl. He despised colds as much as she did. Or perhaps, he only pretended to ache and totter piteously just so he could get her to baby and nurse him. He did have a flair for the dramatics, she thought with an amused smile.  
  
She walked on through the clearing haze, soaked to the skin, conjuring up the particularly nice memories that she liked to play in her head. They were all there, sorted through and reviewed many times over in a section of her brain. By 'nice' memories, she meant the ones that contained the happiest moments of her life. She allowed herself to dwell on the happy and yet mortifying recollections of the past.   
  
Sophie gave an embarrassed chuckle as she recalled the time that Howl had also changed himself into a curly-haired red setter. Michael had grabbed for the one he thought was Howl, and she had grabbed for the dog that she thought was Percival – or to be technical, a blend of Wizard Suliman and Prince Justin. Although she did not have a mirror, Sophie could feel the heat flooding her cheeks and the red sheen settle over her usually pale face. She remembered having her arms around a certain wizard as he had hastily changed himself back into a man; in her surprise over the sudden transformation, she had grabbed onto the tailcoat of his flashy suit, and then had recoiled her hands when she realized she was hanging onto Howl.   
  
With only memories to pass the time, Sophie was becoming quite used to the dirty bits of hail that pelted out of the sky, and the downpour. She was not in the least bit startled by the time the clanging of thunder sounded, and the entire grey and drizzled world lit up spectacularly in a jagged bolt of lightening. It was rather pretty, Sophie reflected, if she could appreciate that sort of thing at a time like this.  
  
The mist was slowly becoming thinner and thinner, and by the time Sophie had emerged from the damp haze, it had stopped thundering. Only a light dismal drizzle fell from the sky, and Sophie forced herself to be content with the change of weather. A thin stream of light broke through the void. She strained her eyes to make out the fuzzy outline of the large – it was very, very large, indeed – object that obstructed her path a few hundred feet from her.   
  
As the object grew nearer and nearer, Sophie's sharp eyes detected the blocks of white stone, neatly stacked on top of each other and noted with some suppressed surprise that it was an enormous castle, a complete contrast from the Witch's pot-and-pans fortress in the Waste and the moving castle, which Sophie had reminded Howl and Calcifer many times, would come apart 'round their ears. Long towers spiraled out from the ground, their pointy tips well into the pink clouds above. Sophie caught her breath, as the blurriness melted away from its edges, and the castle stood in front of her, beautiful, majestic, and very much real.   
  
"Oh," she breathed. Being a housekeeper (and part-time child-sitter for one irresponsible and immature wizard) had not erased her taste for aesthetically pleasing objects that had resulted from her short-lived time as a hat maker in Market Chipping. Sophie was not used to being speechless and in a state of awe. She had always been outgoing and full of something to say, but once in a way, she reminded herself that she needed to stop and listen and see. And this castle and its majestic silence was something she could certainly appreciate.  
  
She hurried up its grand marble stairs and marveled at the doors. They certainly were high! They could, Sophie mused, fit a giant. She grabbed hold of the lion-shaped door knocker and rapped sharply. The door budged open, revealing a dim-lit chandelier and antique carpets littered across the immense ground.   
  
Sophie stood at the doorstep, the rain dripping off her straggling red hair, the mush and water forming a puddle beneath her shoes. She laughed rather helplessly at herself. If Howl was in the castle, she did not want him to see her looking so . . . like something the cat dragged in, and the dog wouldn't eat. She wrung out a few strands of hair, and tried to make herself look presentable. She did her best and then cautiously entered the vast hall.   
  
The heavy wooden door shut behind her with a clang of finality. Sophie jumped and glanced at the door. She was in - in, it seemed, until she found another way out.   
  
There were three doors at the end of the hall; there were no other exits. Sophie glanced at the leftmost door, then at the middle door, and then at the door on the right. They were all of a pleasing burgundy shade and shrouded in darkness. Sophie bit her lip. Confound it, she thought nervously and just a bit peeved. They all look the same!   
  
Sophie closed her eyes and thought furiously in her head: please let me go to the right door. I need to find someone who can help me, and left the final decision up to her feet. They scooted towards the rightmost door.   
  
Sophie looked from the door her feet had chosen to the other two doors. "This door is as good as the others," she said wryly. "I might as well go through and see what I find. I hope this is the right one."  
  
She fumbled with the brass doorknob, somewhat accustomed to doors opening at the slightest knock, and flung the door open. It was pitch black inside.   
  
Sophie distinctly heard the sound of a coin clinking and dropping to the floor. She heard its tottering vibrations and the silence that ensued after it had stopped rotating. Then she heard an even louder clunk. The pain engulfed her head and exploded in a very alarming manner. The last thought Sophie had before she dropped to the floor was, "This is definitely not the right door."  
  
End of Chapter 6  
  
***  
  
2nd Author's Note: I like this chapter better than the last one. The last one just felt really forced and didn't come as natural. I was going to have this chapter be a little longer – but then it ended in a way that I didn't plan for, so you'll just have to wait to find out what happens next.   
Remember to read and review! (Oh, I know you guys have been doing this!!!! Thanks a lot for the comments – really makes my day = )) 


	7. In which Sophie meets the Masterman

Chapter Seven: In which Sophie Meets the Masterman  
  
Author's Note: Happy New Year to all! Sigh, it's no longer a palindrome year. I really am sorry about not updating for soooo long. But what with finals and winter vacation, I haven't had a quiet moment with my computer.   
  
***  
  
She was dreaming. She had to be. Her body felt weightless, floating in the soothing darkness. The shadows encompassing her soon gave way to a thin stream of white light. It shone through the darkness and drew her to it like a moth to the flame. She tried to wrap her fingers around the glow, but her hand passed through it, and it disappeared into smoke, leaving her once again in the shadows. And with sudden despair, she realized the weightless sensation had passed and she lay aching on cold ground.   
  
"Pitiful," spat a faraway-sounding but familiar voice, breaking the stillness of the void. The scorn in her voice accumulated into a contemptuous sneer. "Really, Miss Hatter. I expected much more of a challenge from you."  
  
She tried to turn her head and aim a ferocious glare in the direction of the voice, but she couldn't see. Her vision was shrouded in darkness, and her eyelids weighed heavily down on her face.   
  
My head hurts, Sophie wanted to say, but didn't. It was the truth – her head had exploded into tiny shards and pain spread through every cranny of her skull. She had never ached so much in her life. But to admit such a trivial thing to the Witch was to admit defeat.  
  
"I'm not pitiful," she croaked at last, squeezing out the words despite the raw pain that raced up her jaw line as she spoke.  
  
"Is that so?" The Witch laughed, and her rich voice resonated off the walls in head-throbbing echoes. "Never," she said, "have I seen such a piteous image . . ." she trailed off pointedly, sweeping one grand sleeve off to the side.  
  
"Except," Sophie managed to rasp, "when Howl defeated you in the final battle, and you became nothing more than a mere pile of fancy clothing and bleached bones. And when Howl bested your fire demon, your heart shriveled away into granite dust. That was pitiful. My state of the moment is nothing compared to your end." From where she lay on the cold stone, she could feel the heat of the Witch's glare. She heard brisk footsteps nearing, and then they stopped.  
  
"Fine words from someone in your position," sneered the Witch. "But I won't stoop to kill you today. No, you are far too important to kill now." She tilted her head prettily to one side, the sheets of black hair swinging down, veiling her eyes. "Something happened today that has made me very pleased indeed."  
  
Sophie held her breath, afraid that the Witch's poisonous words would confirm the fears that permeated her entire being. Howl, she thought with despair and dread.  
  
"Will you guess?" mused the Witch, "or shall I tell you?" She didn't wait for Sophie's answer, but continued as if she hadn't asked the question. "Howl," she flashed a triumphant grin at Sophie and Sophie gritted her teeth, willing herself to bear the news gracefully, "has finally given in. Until now, he has been resisting my every move."   
  
"I bound him with an ensorcelled silver chain that was designed to leash him, but he, curse his cunning, slipped free. And ever since, with what magic I haven't wearied out of him, he has been dodging my spells, frustrating me quite a bit . . . ."  
  
"Slithering," Sophie muttered.  
  
The Witch looked startled. "Pardon me?" she asked, raising one fine eyebrow.  
  
"He was slithering out," Sophie said, "not dodging. He never dodges, he   
slithers."  
  
The Witch's clear laugh rung out, and once again the echoes impounded Sophie's skull. She closed her eyes, willing the pain to disappear. Go away, she whispered silently. How do you expect me to function, if you're here deterring my progress?  
  
She hadn't expected the pain to answer, but like the sand and everything else she had ensorcelled, the pain responded to her question. Sophie relaxed as the pain dulled and she could think clearly again.  
  
"You're quite right," said the Witch in a pleasant-enough tone, the tone one used for afternoon tea. "He does slither, quite the snake. It is impossible to pin him down. Even when I tried to influence his thoughts, he evaded my power." The Witch sighed. "It will be a shame to do away with you, Miss Hatter. Quite frankly, you are, perhaps, the most determined and outspoken of all of my opposition. And I do think I might mourn your passing."  
  
The Witch straightened, a tall spindly creature looming in the darkness. "But," she said, "you have something that belongs to me, and I cannot forget that. You have challenged my power with your presence, and I cannot let that go." She sighed once more and smiled crookedly, an odd mixture of facial expressions on her face. In that instant, the Witch was human to Sophie's eyes. But as quick as the smile had come, it disappeared. "Was there never a time when two women fought over one man?" she asked. Then her eyes hardened and her mouth narrowed. "I mean to have Howl."  
  
"You mean you don't?" Sophie said, startled. "You said he gave in."  
  
"Only in a manner of speaking," said the Witch, one side of her mouth snaking upwards. "He didn't so much as give in as I began to tire of his resistance. In his state," she uttered pointedly, "he won't be able to keep up his wearisome game forever." She smiled darkly, the intent of ill-will scrawled across her face.  
  
"I wonder if you would recognize him when you saw him," mused the Witch. "Well, Miss Hatter? Would you?"  
  
Sophie struggled to lasso her anger in. Through clenched teeth, she managed to snarl, "What did you transform him into?"  
  
The Witch smiled, the smile not reaching her cold eyes. She folded each arm over the other. "That would be telling, Miss Hatter. And I never tell."  
  
"What did you transform him into?" Sophie cried, her green eyes wide in frenzied panic. She leapt up from her position on the floor, unaware that she could even stand before she did so. Her legs wobbled unsteadily beneath her, but she stood and glared at the Witch.  
  
"It is a pleasure to see you have regained your former strength. But, I really must be going, Miss Hatter. I'm afraid Howl's expecting me. And it isn't nice to keep the poor boy waiting, is it?" the Witch purred. The hairs on the back of Sophie's neck stood up at the eerie implication. The Witch smiled cordially, a dark glimmer to her unblinking eyes. "I'm afraid we'll just have to postpone our inevitable confrontation until a later time."  
  
The Witch smirked and with a ceremonial wave, melted into the darkened surroundings. Sophie glowered at the place the Witch had occupied, her fists unconsciously clenching and unclenching. She despised that particular habit of the Witch's - waltzing into minds without an invitation.   
  
Still, the Witch's visit had done much to rejuvenate her body. Sophie had done away with her self-wallowing, vanquished the pain, and had found out some valuable information. Howl was holding his own; he hadn't technically 'given in.' But, Sophie worried about what despicable object the Witch had transfigured Howl into. A plank of firewood? A toadstool? The Witch had said Sophie wouldn't know Howl when she saw him . . . .   
  
And finally, Sophie's mind wandered guiltily to some of the Witch's other prisoners, people whom she hadn't thought about, having been too preoccupied with Howl. The King of Ingary, Valeria, Prince Justin, Wizard Suliman, Lettie, Mrs. Fairfax, Martha, Michael, and Calcifer. Just conjuring up the flickering blue face with his glinty purple eyes and wicked orange teeth from her memory made Sophie feel utterly miserable.   
  
Poor Calcifer! Who knew what the Witch had done to him by now. She shut her eyes to keep from thinking the words 'doused with water.'   
  
"I must wake up," Sophie cried. She willed herself to return to the present. The darkened surroundings grew darker still. The roaring din whooshed past her, rattling her ears as she fell through time and space . . .   
  
. . . and awoke to a lighted room and a dark bobbing head in her line of vision.  
  
"Michael?" she whispered groggily, and propped herself up with her elbows, reaching out one hand to steady herself. The face that she had at first thought to be Michael's became less distorted and hazy as her eyes adjusted to the light.  
  
He was indubitably handsome. He had curly black hair that shrouded the nape of his neck and over the tips of his ears. Wide blue eyes were set in an olive-hued angular face. She gazed at him, bewildered – he was the type of man she had always thought Lettie would marry.   
  
"Are you alright?" he asked anxiously, still crouched down beside her.  
  
When he opened his mouth, she had expected to hear sophistication permeate his drawl, his words fluid, unmarred by the awkwardness of adolescence, but the casual tone and anxiety (that reminded her of Michael) made him seem more ordinary, and less glorious. She was relieved. Unbidden, an image of Howl flashed across her mind. She hastily shoved it away, but not before flushing unnecessarily.  
  
"What happened?" Sophie mumbled, as she drew herself up to her feet.  
  
"Steady there," said the man, catching her arm and helping her up as Sophie wobbled shakily.  
  
"Thank you," she said, and wrinkled her noise in distaste. "I feel like I was bludgeoned," she grumbled, one hand rubbing tenderly at the large lump that protruded from her head.   
  
The young man coughed uncomfortably. But even before he glanced guiltily at his feet, Sophie had taken in the room they were standing in, and realization dawned on her face. There were mounds of gold coins everywhere, from which pearl necklaces and emerald headdresses, ruby scepters and diamond crowns and unnamed treasures trickled out of. Sophie narrowed her eyes as she distinctly recalled the sound of a coin dropping before she had hit the ground.  
  
She whirled around and advanced. The anger was evident in her eyes because the young man nervously began to back up. "You knocked me out!" Sophie cried, disbelief marked in her voice. Her eyes darted to the medium-sized sack of gold coins in his hand and then back to his face. Her mouth gaped open. "You struck me with a bag of gold, you miserable weasel. Confound it and botheration! Just when I began to think you were nice!"  
  
"No, wait," he called, shuffling after her retreating back. "Wait! I – I am nice. It's just that no one has been in this castle for so long, so I've gotten a tad bit rusty. I - I thought you were coming to steal the treasure. There's been so much trouble with Jacks sneaking in and stealing golden harps and the like. You are an intruder, though. So I did have some right."  
  
Sophie snorted; the young man jumped, a startled look clouding his eyes. "I am not," she said, "an intruder. I'm searching for someone, or rather, a group of someones. But you've said that there hasn't been anyone here, so I've undoubtedly come to the wrong place."  
  
"I could be wrong," the young man said earnestly. "The Giant's kept me locked up in this room – I've almost never seen the rest of the halls. There could be more people here, and I wouldn't know about it."  
  
Sophie stared at him, unblinking. "There's a Giant?" Her throat felt raw and her voice was tinny in her own ears. There were no such things as giants. She had grown up thinking they were just figments of the imagination, imaginary tyrants out of fireside stories. "There's a Giant?" she uttered again.  
  
"Well," the young man smirked, his face not looking so nearly ordinary and pleasant as before, "what do you expect when you climb up a beanstalk? There are giants in the sky, not mermaids."  
  
"Oh," said Sophie, irked at feeling foolish. And to make herself feel less foolish, she said, "Of course there wouldn't be mermaids in the sky. They live in the sea."  
  
"How would you know?" he asked.  
  
Although his voice did not appear to contain any jeer, Sophie took offense. She said tersely, "I've seen mermaids with my own eyes. They're woman with the lower extremities of a fish; they can only live in the sea."  
  
The young man stared at her coolly with unblinking blue eyes. "Well then, if you believe that, you're naïve," he said.  
  
Sophie blanched, outraged. "And you're a nuisance," she replied and whirled around, intent on leaving the room.  
  
To her surprise and outrage, he burst out laughing. Pushing his way up to her, he grinned apologetically into her face. "I'm sorry," he said meekly. "I really am a nuisance, but you're going to have to bear with me."  
  
Sophie glared at him. "You're not sorry at all, and if you were, you wouldn't have been rude in the first place."  
  
"It is my fault," said the young man, his head drooping slightly. "I don't really know who I am, and I guess, in not knowing my exact identity, I don't have a personality."  
  
Sophie raised her eyebrows: "You mean you have multiple personalities . . ."  
  
" . . .but I don't have a distinct personality that defines me," he interrupted. "That's right," he said, agreeing fervently. "I can be nice, and not-so-nice at times." He flashed a grin. "By the way, I'm the Masterman." He stretched out a hand.  
  
"Sophie," she said, and shook the hand, feeling that at last they had reached an understanding. Then, she disengaged her arm and frowned. "What sort of name is the Masterman?"  
  
"'What is in a name? A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet . . .' ah, something like that. Actually," the Masterman confessed, "this was the name the Giant bid me have. I have known no other name than 'Masterman' or 'you, boy!'"   
  
"But there must be a reason why he calls you the 'Masterman,'" pressed Sophie. "What do you do in this castle?"  
  
"I sit in this treasure room," said the Masterman disgustedly, "and while my youth away behind closed doors."  
  
Sophie raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips, not saying anything.  
  
"The Giant," the Masterman continued, "comes by every evening after he has ravaged the countryside and informs me of his conquest. He then demands a story of me. It can never be the same story twice because while his wits may be dull, he has the memory of an elephant. He never forgets a tale." He grew silent, looking down at the gold-littered floor. "All my life, I have wished to travel beyond this cage. And today, with your appearance, I hoped that perhaps you would not meet the same fate as the others . . . ."  
  
"What others?" Sophie demanded. "What fate? You don't mean . . ." she trailed off, searching the Masterman's face for answers.  
  
He nodded seriously, matching her gaze, and shrugged. "He is a giant, after all; repulsive as it may seem, his diet consists of humans."  
  
"That is repulsive," she said with great disgust. "He sounds absolutely dreadful. I hope I don't have to meet him anytime so--"  
  
They both jumped at the sound of the outer hall door crashing open.  
  
The Masterman looked at Sophie grimly. "That," he said, "would be the   
Giant." He grabbed Sophie's arm and dragged her to the gold-gilded door.  
  
"What are you doing?" Sophie protested, harried at being pushed around.  
  
"That," he said with an even grimmer look, "is your cue to exit."  
  
"But there's a Giant out there," Sophie cried angrily.   
  
"Exactly," the Masterman uttered, and shoved Sophie out the door.  
  
***   
  
Me again! What do you think? Please read and review!!! I apologize now that you've read this chapter. I think I've lost Sophie's voice (not her actual speaking voice, but her dialect.)   
For people who want to know when Howl's appearing – he'll either be present in CH 8 or CH 9.   
  
Ciao!!! 


	8. In Which Sophie Encounters the Stuff of ...

Chapter Eight: In which Sophie Encounters the Stuff of Legends  
By Calcifersgrl  
  
  
Lady Artemis: will the giant turn out to be Howl? . . . I do hope not . . .  
= ). But we shall see, won't we? Hehe. That would be telling. And I never tell. . . (Okay, I know. This author's definitely going weird – who quotes from themselves?!? )  
  
Caudex: Thanks, Caudex for the movie info. Sigh, 2004 just seems way too far away. Oh and yes, I am a Tolkien fan as well. I've always liked the title "There and Back Again." I probably should have done a disclaimer or something . . . yikes – I'll do a disclaimer for Chapter Eight then. Last thing, what does Caudex mean?   
  
Angelicarising22: hmm . . . saying anything would give it away. But let me just say that I think not. Howl will be appearing soon, but probably not as soon as I thought. Funny, isn't it?  
  
ChocolateEclar: the Masterman as one of the kidnapped characters . . . hmm. That would be telling, and my lips are sealed!   
  
Lightening Bug: Sufficiently scared by your multiple personalities threat. (Okay, okay – but that's not to say that threats work. They don't, by the way.) LOL. Anyway, go ahead and e-mail me the HMC fic. I would love to read it. Gosh, I love it how everyone's catching on the HMC fanfic fest. Wahoo!!!  
  
  
And to Everyone Else who has ever read my story: Thank you so much for the Reviews!!! (Hint Hint: I would love to someday break one hundred reviews!)  
  
And on with Chapter Eight  
***  
  
"What ingratitude," Sophie muttered. "If only I could do green slime. I would wish it by the bucket load on that – that creature." She pictured the Masterman's laughing face framed by curling olive black hair. The mental portrait automatically shifted; the regal nose upturned and the sincere blue eyes glazed over to a haughty coolness. It was just her luck to have the influx of the giant coincide when the Masterman happened to be going through his versatile personality cycle. "Nice, my foot!" she muttered and snorted derisively. She glowered at the shut door as if to will the Masterman to open it at her command, but she didn't know how to make objects other than inanimate obey her will. Besides, she rather thought she had overdone her magic, or at least had gone about it all wrong. She had a nagging suspicion that she was in dire need of some magical guidance – but it just wasn't the time to doubt her sorceress abilities. There was a giant loose in the halls beyond, and she needed to focus and assess her newfound trouble.   
  
It was still so hard to believe. A giant – like those told to her in the worst and scariest of her childhood fireside stories – actually existed and was going to trollop her any moment. She could almost imagine the ogre-ish features peeping out of the darkness, stretching its misshapen green claws to ensnare its victim . . . . Sophie shuddered and immediately blotted the image out of her mind.   
  
It was dark out, with the promise of torchlight in the faint distance. Sophie shied away from the light – all the easier it would be for the giant to find her out. She could make out the faint lines of moth-eaten tapestries lining the walls, and took a deep whiff of the musty smell that pervaded the hallway. She winced, as a tickling sensation crept up her nose. She held her breath, trying not to give into her impulse to sneeze. The feeling passed, and she resorted to breathing regularly and not too deeply. All in all, she had not come out of the same door she had entered.   
  
She wondered at the absurdity of the castle: the doors that led to different places, the Masterman, and of course, the giant. The changing doors were convenient in her current case; it had transported her to another side of the castle, one, hopefully, far away from the Giant. As of the moment, she couldn't hear the thundering footsteps of the Giant, but she knew of no rule that said a giant was above tiptoeing. He could be scuttling around the moth-eaten hallways, as cautious and as quiet as she was being now. And now for the Masterman . . . . She knew of no person more confusing than him, with the exception of Howl. But even Howl was decipherable. Once she had figured out his faults, he had almost been an open book to her . . . almost. She had underestimated his ability as a wizard. Underestimated his ability to charm any woman . . . regardless of how old she might appear to be.   
  
But the Masterman . . . there was no question that the dark-haired young man was pleasant and physically attractive, but he was also infuriating and lacking in a definite personality. And as for his actions, he had turned her out into the night-infused castle to face an unknown and formidable foe.   
  
Sophie could have smirked as she realized the Masterman's latest trait: he was a coward. "So like a man," she quietly said to herself, "to try to save his own tail first." For the first time, she noticed the similarities between Howl and the Masterman: charming, adorable, noble, vain, cowardly to a fault, etc . . . . The one thing that the Masterman lacked of Howl's traits was Howl's maddening habit of refusing to be pinned down to anything. She dearly hoped she lived long enough to introduce the two of them. She wondered idly how Howl would react to meeting someone just as irresponsible, narcissistic, and cowardly as himself.   
  
She crept across the corridor, past the myriad of decrepit and grotesque statues of gargoyles; her hand steadied herself against the wearied wall, bracing her ascent up the gloomy hall. The torches flickered warningly, dancing their faint beams across the peeling paint on the walls, illuminating the way she had come. The statues were even more deformed than they had appeared in the dimness. The long red carpet that adorned the floor had once been rich and intricate, but it had been ignored for centuries, and now gathered an inch layer of dust. The torchlight glimmered over the cracked mirror that hung on Sophie's right. She grasped the torch's handle, careful not to spill the hot oil on her hand. Despite her care, a thin trickle of the substance sizzled on her flesh. Sophie cursed under her breath, using one of the many words she had learned from Martha.   
  
She shifted the torch to the other hand, and pressed the burned hand against the coolness of the mirror's surface. Despite the mirror distortions, she could make out reddish fair hair, green eyes that did not reflect her apprehension, and a slightly bruised face . . . .   
  
She looked away. The vibrations from the Giant's thundering footsteps shook the mirror slightly. He was getting closer. Sophie calmed herself with the thought that the Giant hadn't the faintest notion that she was even in the castle. He was probably confronting the Masterman with his latest kill and coercing him to tell a story. As Sophie thought this, her anger at the Masterman vanished. He was trying to save his own tail . . . and hers, she amended.   
  
It would not have done for the Giant to find her in his treasury room; there was only one exit, only one way to escape. But, she concluded, it was still extremely spineless of him to rely on her to pave the way for his escape. It made her feel rather exploited, a feeling she was altogether too familiar with and hated.   
  
She had reached a door. On opening it, she heard silence in the impending dark. She hastily snuffed the torchlight and closed the door behind her.   
  
The new room was infused with light. Sophie wondered how she could have mistaken it for darkness. The room stretched for miles upon miles, it seemed; she could not even see where the opposite walls began. There were twenty columns, as thick as a tree, holding up the dome ceiling. On the right, there was a golden throne embossed with precious stones that Sophie thought she had seen somewhere before. It finally dawned on her. The night before she had left the Moving Castle, Sophie had seen the Witch sitting on the golden throne, a silver tiara perched on her improbable hair, reeling Howl in with a chain. Sophie frowned; they had been talking about fish, was it?   
  
A tall shadow fell across the throne, startling Sophie into perceiving the Giant, the stuff of legends, for the first time. Clad in a ragged maroon garment that hung loosely about his large frame, he was twenty-five feet tall, at the least, bearing a ten-foot-long wooden club. Even the handle was thicker than Sophie's head. She shivered. The Giant was not as deformed as the creatures of her childhood had been. He was quite manlike, but was devoid of hints of civilization. His straggly dark hair was matted with blood, encasing a thick-set face smudged with dirt. He had saucer-like eyes that did not blink, and when he did, they narrowed to thin slits.   
  
He grinned suddenly. Sophie shuddered and drew back into the shadow of the column. Her hand groped for the doorknob behind her, but found to her chagrin, that the door didn't even exist anymore. She glanced nervously at the advancing creature. She crossed her fingers and hoped he hadn't seen her.  
  
He grinned again, showing a full mouth of teeth. "Fee Fi Fo Fum!" he roared, crashing forth at a leisurely pace. "I smell the blood of an Englishman! Be he alive or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread!" He drew out the last words, enunciating them clearly.   
  
Sophie's knees wobbled; he had seen her, to be sure. She pressed herself flat against the marble column, counting slowly to herself. She would run after fifteen counts.   
  
"I smell the blood of an Englishman!" he bellowed again. He grinned again toothily; Sophie's stomach dropped unpleasantly. She assessed the creature that stood tramping and hollering in front of her. The Giant was the epitome of stupidity. Were it not for the massive knuckles that unconsciously clenched and unclenched the hilt of the club, and the terribly enormous teeth, and his altogether largeness in general, she would have regarded him with the utmost scorn. As gargantuan as his fist may be, his brain must have been the size of a pea. She had never had any patience with mammoth, intimidating creatures who stamped their foot and gnashed their teeth trying to intimidate. She didn't bother reserving any for this Giant.  
  
She only had to worry about outrunning him, that was all, she told herself. He has no brain, she reminded herself. He has no brain . . . . What next erupted out of the Giant's mouth surprised her and broke her assumption.  
  
The Giant dropped the traditional Giant habit of rhyming and spoke casually and only a bit off from intelligently, devoid of the nauseating heavy breathing and grunting. "I be getting bored of this game, Pretty Lady. I know you there, so you might as well come out!"  
  
Sophie winced and bit her lip. Five. Six. Seven.  
  
"Women are always so harebrained," said the Giant who advanced slowly. "Your hair like glint off candlelight and blood. Even I, so pea-brained, notice it. Come out, come out! You can't hide from me forever, Pretty Lady."   
  
Sophie dug the sole of her shoes into the marble floor, ready to run at a second's notice. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.   
  
The Giant inhaled sharply as if to take in a glorious smell, and started his rhyme again: "Fee Fi Fo Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread." He licked his lips greedily.  
  
Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sophie took a deep breath, but didn't run. Instead, she came out from behind the pillar. "First of all," she said pointedly. "I'm not English."  
  
The Giant looked suspiciously at her, his saucer-like eyes narrowing to mere slits. "Are you sure?" he asked and scratched the few scraggly hairs on his chin.  
  
"Quite sure," said Sophie fervently. "Secondly, I'm not a man, as you can see. And thirdly, well it's no wonder you're starving . . ."  
  
"Yes," agreed the Giant ferociously and looked at Sophie with a hungry glint in his eyes. "I be very starving."  
  
"Because," Sophie hurried on, "I'll bet that human bones don't make the greatest dough. Rather crunchy and – and tasteless. And you probably don't have any yeast – and without yeast, your bread doesn't rise," she concluded somewhat triumphantly.  
  
"How do you know?" asked the Giant, with a sideways tilt to his head. A drop of saliva dribbled down the corner of one mouth.  
  
"Because," Sophie said, trying to gamble for time, "my sister, Martha, works at Cesari's, a bakery, and that's how they make bread. Yeast and proper dough are the correct ingredients. Bones are – are bad for bread. Yes, very bad for bread," she said adamantly.  
  
The Giant growled and glared purposely at her. "I like bones. I like bread crunchy and tasteless. I like flat bread. But," he paused and looked at her sideways, again. "You not English?"  
  
"No," said Sophie, risking a small smile, hoping to win him to her side. She stood with her back pressed against the column, her fingers crossed for luck.   
  
His eyes crossed and became flat disks again. "Is your name Jack or Jackie, mayhaps?" he asked warily.  
  
"Of course not!" Sophie shook her head and smiled. "My name's Sophie."  
  
"Good," the Giant growled and bared his massive teeth at her. His eyes had resumed their narrow slits. "All the better to eat you with, my dear." He lunged forward.  
  
That's the wrong line, Sophie thought, panicking. He's not supposed to say that! But at least she got her frozen legs to move from the spot they seemed to have been glued to.   
  
The Giant whipped his club from his side and smashed the first column. Splinters flew and dust swirled. Sophie barely dodged out of the way. Being an avid reader of the sciences had never appeared useful until now. She ran at a zigzag, grateful that she had learned that much at school; the Giant was heavier and thus, once his gigantic mass was set in motion, it would be harder for him to change directions.  
  
She cut around a pillar. The Giant stumbled over some fallen stone, and crashed headlong into the column. He shook his wild mane free of the dust and stone bits, and let out an eldritch roar. His dark eyes pulsed with a sort of feverish rage. But as he chased after her, he seemed to be running blindly, only going by the sound of her feet pounding across the marble floor. She swerved in and around the gorgeously intricate pillars, only to have the Giant, who was a mere ten feet behind her, smash into them, though that was not by his design.   
  
The Giant's arm was bleeding freely, having suffered enough confrontations with sturdy stone columns. Still, he pursued her, hobbling on his slightly bloody foot, and clutching one side of his stomach.  
  
That, Sophie thought, is why you shouldn't eat people in the first place. They're indigestible, and cause stomach cramps.   
  
But despite the Giant's apparent side ache, he appeared to be gaining on Sophie. At first, he was a full giant's length behind, but slowly and surely, he came to be merely a hand span away from her. If he stretched his arm forward enough, he could almost touch her shoulder . . . . The saliva ran freely out of the corner of his mouth as he hounded after her.   
  
Delectable, indeed, Sophie thought indignantly. The Giant would be sure to rip her arms and legs off first to insure that escape would be futile. But she wouldn't allow herself to be caught, at least, not if she could help it.   
  
In and out of the stone rubble, Sophie spent her remaining energy on moving her legs. Left, right, left, right. They didn't seem to need the encouragement though. She felt utterly winded, her arms pumped unfeelingly by her side, and she had reached the point where her legs moved entirely by their own will. They were numb; she could feel the coldness stretch up her legs and take hold. On top of that, the setting in front of her had started to blur. She blinked to keep the haze from settling into her vision. It didn't help. Gathering some of her left over energy, she concentrated on shoving the blurriness away from her eyes. She reminded the blurriness that she needed to see, and added that it was most impolite for them to barge over her eyes in a crisis.  
  
Her vision cleared . . . and settled on a door. Fifty feet away from her. She charged forward, feeling the muggy breath of the Giant on her head. Faster, she thought impatiently to her feet. She willed her jellied legs to pump even faster. She flung herself headlong through the door, into the welcome darkness, into another reality . . . into relief.  
  
She was safe.  
  
For the time being.  
  
Somewhere on the other side of the castle, she heard the Giant's wrathful and frustrated howl echo off the resonant walls. He had flung open the door that Sophie had hurtled into, only to be greeted by disappointment and the realization that there would be no "nummy" bones to grind at the moment.  
  
Sophie sagged to the ground in relief, grateful that her heart could stop pounding out of her chest and her muscles could relax. Once jelly, she was now lead. But then her head perked up, and dismay crossed her features. Curly black hair, olive complexion . . . the Masterman – she had to rescue the Masterman! Painfully, she pushed herself off the floor, and began to hobble down the narrow hallway. It was better lighted than the corridor she had traveled up in, and better kept. The floor and walls were made of polished wooden planks. A few tapestries were strung across the walls, all of to which Sophie paid absolutely no attention. She wobbled unsteadily, her legs seeming to fold under her, and fell against the wall.  
  
"I shouldn't do this," she said meaningfully to herself, and then did it anyway. She talked the pain away, like she had done before. It didn't feel right, using her magical ability for selfish and petty needs. And it felt like there was a whole other side to her talent that no one had ever instructed her in. There would be consequences, she knew, but could only hope they wouldn't be too severe.   
  
Cured of her weariness, she continued down the hallway at a reasonable pace.   
  
***  
  
Author's Note: This chapter was very weird – and it doesn't sound right, but oh well . . . . Tell me what you thought of it.   
Secondly, are Sophie's eyes green? Or are they grey? I know Howl has green eyes, and Lettie has blue eyes, and does Martha have grey eyes?   
Tell me if you know . . . thank you and please do review!!!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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	9. Which is Full of Vegetables and Surprise...

Chapter 9: Which is Full of Vegetables and Surprises  
By Calcifersgrl  
  
Author's Note: Yeah, another update! Enjoy . . . and remember to read and review  
  
To Caudex: thank you so much for all the wonderful comments and the clarification of the Sophie's eye color dilemma. I'd love to know what you think will happen next!  
Oh, also: "Your hair like glint off candlelight and blood" is a typo! Thanks for catching it! Usually I catch stuff like that when I edit my writing, but I didn't this time. But what it's trying to convey is that her hair is noticeable. Cuz her hair's ginger-ish, strawberry blond is it? Or is it somewhat red? If you know, please tell me!  
  
To Lady Artemis: The giant in Fire and Hemlock? Really? I haven't read that book in a while, so I guess I'd better read it over again. It's funny how it reminded you of a cross between that book and fairytales. I was aiming for "Jack and the Beanstalk" but HMC style. Oh well, hope you continue your story.  
  
Thanks to the other readers of this story: Sakura, Angelicarising22, vib, Jenna, ChocolateEclar, lightening bug, etc . . . . Your reviews really make my day! (P.S. – it's my goal to hit 100 someday)  
  
  
***  
  
She wandered down dimly-lit corridor after corridor, thinking very determinedly about finding the Masterman. After a few wrong turns and a few doors that led to no where, she had opened a rusted doorknob to reveal the golden splendor of the treasure room. In the far corner sat the curly-haired young man, his knees drawn up under his arms. A look of extreme unhappiness sat on his face. It took one unhappy soul to recognize another, Sophie thought. Her sympathy stirred, she started forward instinctively. Sophie was a natural comforter, having always needed to soothe Lettie and Martha when they were younger - after the younger two had either thrown a tantrum or pulled out large chunks of each other's hair. Sophie felt a pang in her heart as she realized with sadness that the three sisters were no longer young and innocent.  
  
She nudged the door father open with her elbow. The door groaned loudly, protesting against the thrust, to which Sophie cringed as the unpleasant noise sent her ears ringing. Startled, the Masterman looked up.   
  
The momentary misery melted into a mask of neutrality. He stopped wringing his long artist fingers and hid them behind his back.   
  
"There you are!" exclaimed the Masterman, jumping up from his delicate perch atop a flattened stack of gold coins. His handsome features were twisted between relief and distress, a mix which resulted in an absurdly comical look. His blue eyes had agitated to a state of pale green, and stared unblinking at Sophie.  
  
He fluttered his arms a little helplessly, his sleeves gently swishing back and forth. "What took you so long?" he demanded rudely.   
  
Sophie was taken back. "Just as long as it takes to not be completely smushed by a twenty-five foot tall, warmongering, not to mention blood-thirsty, giant," she retorted.  
  
The Masterman stopped in the middle of his agitated pacing, and stared at her, aghast. "What?" he near-shrieked, balling up his fists in his anxiety. "You mean you didn't kill the giant?"  
  
"As if I could!" Sophie snorted loudly. "I do think you could be a little more concerned about me, rather than your own lily-livered self. You might do to say something like, 'I'm so sorry that you almost got clubbed by my ill-tempered keeper, especially since I'm the one who tossed you out to face him. I do apologize for my despicable behavior and lack of judgment.'" She glared, daring him to make the apology.  
  
He glared right back. Two sets of narrowed blue-green eyes locked in combat, trying to goad the other set to look away first. Sophie evidently had had more practice in glaring than the Masterman, for he was forced to avert his eyes first.   
  
He hung his head, and when he looked up again, his eyes had cleared into his natural bluish hue. He gave a weak titter, attempting to laugh off the situation. His eyes had widened to the size of blue marbles, round and innocent-looking.   
  
Sophie did not budge. She was not as ready to forgive him as he had clearly already forgiven himself.  
  
"Sophie," he pleaded. "The word 'sorry' isn't in my vocabulary. I can't grovel. I'm not made to grovel. It's very unbecoming. Besides, I'd dirty my robes."   
  
Sophie was unrelenting. She continued to glare at him sternly, her arms crossed over her chest. "You said 'sorry' to me once. I know you can say it again."  
  
"I know that," the Masterman said earnestly, "but I had another personality then."  
  
"There's not that much to saying 'sorry,'" Sophie said irritably. "Couldn't you just switch personalities?" The Masterman merely shook his head, his curls bouncing across his forehead. Sophie huffed, even more piqued than before. "I refuse to make a fuss about this."  
  
"Okay," the Masterman agreed. "No more fuss, no more muss. Where's the Giant now?"  
  
An ear-splitting roar sounded as the Giant screeched somewhere nearby.   
  
"Sorry," said the Masterman meekly. Sophie glared at him, wondering at the absurdity of how he could 'sorry' now and not previously. "I forgot that saying his name or thinking about him can bring him to you." He added, "That's why you were able to find me the second time. You must have been concentrating on me, otherwise you wouldn't have found the door." He opened his mouth to say something else, but was interrupted as Sophie grabbed him by the collar and hurtled the two of them through the gold-gilded door . . .   
  
. . . into blinding sunlight, which froze their movements temporarily. Sophie lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the glare. The Masterman staggered on her arm, having tripped over a root. Sophie lowered her hand as her eyes adjusted to the brightness. What met her eyes caused her mouth to gape in utter delight.   
  
They had landed in the middle of a colorful garden. Gorgeous chrysanthemums, tiger lilies, rhododendrons, and tea roses dotted the tangled wild growth. Vines of wisteria twined up the trellis, drooping over their heads. Sophie made out a patch of homely bluebells growing amidst the more comely daffodils. She felt sorry for the poor things, having to compete for sunlight as well as beauty. With a few whispered words, she straightened, smiling in the knowledge that those bluebells would finally stand up straight, instead of forever drooping. Besides the assortment of flowers, tall, straight trees grew side by side with gnarled, squatted ones – all of which contributed the picture of untamed wilderness.  
  
Sophie sniffed the air. The exotic scent was combined with an odd odor that she could not name. Before long, she discovered the source of the slight stench – behind the Masterman. Fresh manure was piled around a hideous black plant with fang-like thorns.   
  
"Nightshade," Sophie murmured as she looked at the deadly plant with repulsion. Going a few steps to the left, she found a smoldering patch of dragon's bane. It was a spiky green plant the resembled an ordinary weed, except it was edged in dark purple.   
  
She looked over her shoulder to see how the Masterman fared and when she   
did, she could only roll her eyes in exasperation. He was tiptoeing around the dirt-strewn cobblestone, his hands pulling up his long, sweeping robe. As he did so, a long green vine suddenly snaked around his ankle and yanked. In a flurry of navy blue sleeves, thrashing arms, the Masterman found himself face flat in the bluebell patch. The no-longer-drooping bluebells tittered at him, a sound that resembled human laughter.   
  
"Rutabagas!" cried the Masterman with unconcealed delight, as he chanced to glance at the vegetable he had uprooted in his fall to the right of the bluebell patch. He scurried to his feet, forgetting that the vine was still latched onto his ankle, and only managed to land in the dirt once again, which caused the bluebells to titter even harder.  
  
Sophie hid a smile, as she watched him pry the spiky vine off his ankle. He may be a nuisance, she thought, but sometimes he added comic relief to an otherwise serious situation. She shook her head in mock exasperation. She would never understand him. Perhaps, it was a matter of his multi-personalities, or perhaps not. At times, he was so vain and so arrogant. At other times, he was filled with wonderment and childish delight – demonstrated here by the way his eyes lit up at the sight of the rutabagas.  
  
Sophie frowned. What was a rutabaga? The vegetable she saw the now-dirty Masterman clutch was unfamiliar, but then again, she was not well versed in the naming of vegetables. It was of an altogether odd shape too – consisting of an overlarge head and a skinny tip.   
  
On his knees in the dirt, the Masterman grubbed his hands, pulling out an assortment of different vegetables, calling out "Salsify" and "Parsnip" and "Kohlrabi" with great enthusiasm. Sophie was mystified at each new vegetable that he tossed out. The salsify looked like a thin and rather brittle stick of wood. The parsnip vaguely resembled the rutabaga, only it was thinner and longer.   
  
"Sophie, it's a kohlrabi! A Kohlrabi, Sophie!" he crowed as he flung a hideous green vegetable at her. She staggered from the catch and almost dropped it in instinctive revulsion. It looked like a cabbage to her eyes, except its smooth green skin had ugly green siphons adhered to the bottom.  
  
"What are these for?" she asked with a perplexed expression across her face.   
  
The Masterman craned his neck around to regard her strangely. Sophie flushed and dug her nails into her palms.   
  
"To eat, of course," he replied.  
  
Sophie pursed her lips and muttered, "First nightshade and dragon's bane, now this corabi, parsnip, and that stick-like vegetable. Small wonder the Giant goes after humans!"  
  
No sooner had the words passed through her mouth did the garden floor start to rumble loudly. The sound of a very large something, no, someone, running. . . .  
  
"Now you've done it!" the Masterman said angrily, his nostrils flaring wide. He shoved four of his precious rutabagas into Sophie's hands, gathered up the kohlrabi and parsnip in one embrace, and yanked Sophie by the collar.   
  
They had only begun to run when the Giant came crashing through the garden door, the only entrance and exit.   
  
"Missed me?" he growled in his barely understandable dialect, lisping the s'. His blue eyes glowed with feverish excitement, as he smacked his club into his enormous palms. "This is going to be fun."  
  
"Whatever you do," the Masterman whispered to her, "do not drop the rutabagas."  
  
Sophie merely shrugged him off. She had no intention of saving the rutabagas; her top priority was saving herself . . . and the Masterman. They were cornered, enclosed in a thick undergrowth of wild plants. Surrounded by patches of harmless plants. What good was it to be able to enchant inanimate objects, if none of the objects could be useful in their enchanted state!  
  
Her eyes slid to the nightshade, and silently thought no. The nightshade would only be able to bite the Giant's ankle – and even that would do little, if at all, harm for the Giant had tough, rubbery skin.  
  
And suddenly, she smiled, pleased with herself. She realized exactly what she would do. Sophie shook off the frightened Masterman who clutched her arm as if it were the rutabaga itself, and aimed the oddly-shaped vegetable at the Giant's forehead. It fell a little short, and hit his stubby nose instead.  
  
He hissed as the momentary pain shot up the bridge of his nose. His saucer-like eyes swung back and forth like a pendulum between Sophie and the Masterman. The Masterman whimpered softly as the Giant's eyes fell on him.  
  
"Ungrateful whelp," the Giant growled. "Cavorting with this plain-faced hussy . . ."  
  
"WHAT?" Sophie blanched, utterly outraged.  
  
"Don't take it literally," assured the Masterman, who peeped at the Giant from behind her shoulder. "You're very, very pretty."  
  
Sophie merely glared at him, and he ducked his head again, hiding behind his sheath of black curls.   
  
The Giant looked uncomfortable, rocking back and forth on his enormous feet. His club swung restlessly by his side. "A hussy," he repeated, his saucer eyes shifting in discomfort. "A girl, a," his voice faltered, "a slu-"  
  
"I know full well what you mean," Sophie said in her iciest voice. "I refuse to be associated with the Masterman. I do not cavort, and if I did, certainly not with him, nor am a sl--," her voice also faltered here on naming the despised word, "a shameless girl," she finished firmly, using Fanny's names for such loose women. And as she said this, an image of herself in Howl's bedroom popped up. She blushed hotly at the memory, before refocusing on the Giant.  
  
The Giant's limpid blue eyes were marred with a sentiment of embarrassment; for a moment, it seemed as if something human was peeping out of his soul. But the look quickly disappeared: his eyes rolled backward and darkened to a slate-gray hue, erasing all sense of humanity. His iron-grip fists clenched around the club, accentuating the bulging blue veins that nearly popped out of his skin.   
  
"Fee Fi Fo Fum!" he seethed forcefully through yellowing teeth. "Fee Fi Fo Fum!" He worked himself into a half-frenzy before snarling, "I be wanting to grind some bones tonight!"  
  
"Now, now," Sophie said awkwardly, as she held up her hands in protest and took a step backward, "Don't be hasty. These parsnips," she held up the remaining rutabagas, "I've heard, are quite tasty in stew."  
  
The Giant only roared in response. Saliva appeared in the corner of his mouth and trickled down his face.   
  
"Those are rutabagas," the Masterman whispered, still cowering behind her.   
  
She ignored him, as she had often found necessary to do. She eyed the Giant carefully. With every step she retreated, the giant advanced, covering the distance between them tenfold. She'd rather him keep his distance, but it was crucial to her plan that he press ahead.   
  
"Sophie," the Masterman mumbled louder, "do something."  
  
"I'm trying," she shot back, thoroughly vexed. "You do something, if you think you have a better plan!" She reconsidered; the image of the Masterman bungling her precious idea ran through her mind: "No, it's better to stay where you are."  
  
"Fee Fi Fo Fum," the Giant roared as he crashed through the trees and swiped the flowers out of his way. He smashed a patch of purple rhododendrons; on lifting his foot, Sophie observed that the flowers had wilted from the sickening odor of his feet.  
  
"I do have a better idea," the Masterman said suddenly. And without further ado, he yanked Sophie's arm, causing her to spill the rutabagas, and dragged her as he cantered into a sprint.  
  
"Faster," he panted. "He's just two foot-lengths from stomping on us." He had left the precious kohlrabi behind, a small pile of vegetables that soon disappeared from view as the Giant mangled them in his pursuit.  
  
Drearily, as she worked to keep her legs pumping, Sophie reflected that she had had enough of running to last her for a lifetime.   
  
"Keep running!" the Masterman bawled at her. "You'll get hurt at this speed." His grip tightened about her wrist. The background noises of manic laughter and thundering footsteps increased in volume, vibrating in the otherwise still air.   
  
Sophie almost stopped as a strange sense of déjà vu came over her. Where had she heard those words before? Who had spoken them to her?  
  
"No, don't slow down," the Masterman bellowed into her ear, his voice vibrating painfully. "We're almost –" he panted, "almost safe. Almost there, almost at the door."  
  
With a start, Sophie realized that they had run into another section of the garden. "We have to circle back," she panted out in shallow breaths. "I can stop the Giant." Finding renewed strength in her declaration, this time it was she who dragged the Masterman through the dusty air. And they made their way back to the section they had begun in, the Giant not far behind.   
  
Please, Sophie thought, please work. She wrenched her wrist out of the Masterman's hand and faced the oncoming Giant. His ruddy cheeks were even redder, fed by his anger and by his panting. She noted that his club was gone, having disappeared somewhere along the merry chase.  
  
Her eyes slithered to her ready instrument. Please, please, please work, she whispered silently. Then, she focused all the energy she could gather, trembling, on the lithe green vine that had tripped the Masterman some moments before. It snaked out with abruptness and coiled around the Giant's thick ankles, bringing his forward motion to a dead halt. With a shriek and a braying whimper, the Giant momentary left the ground, only to land with a sickening thud on the garden ground. The dust flew in hazy wisps, and the flowers shuddered from the deafening clunk. Only the tall-standing bluebells had the audacity to titter loudly, whether from Sophie's triumph or from the small breeze that stirred up at the creature's demise.   
  
"Geroff me!" Sophie mumbled through the thick folds of the Masterman's robes. She freed her hands, which were tangled with some other body parts, and gave one great shove, to no avail. She spit out the mouthful of dirt with an indecipherable sound. As the Giant had been falling, the Masterman had dove out of the way . . . onto Sophie. The two of them tumbled off to the side into a patch of tiger lilies, safety out of the Giant's way. But not completely safe from all of the consequences of the felling. Dirt had rained on them, finding ways into their eyes and mouths and clothes.  
  
The Masterman struggled to perch himself up, but he did not get off of her. His hair had mussed up during the tumble and stood up most bizarrely on his head. "Did we kill him?"  
  
"A fall like that-" Sophie said, "Most likely." She huffed. "Now, will you please get off me?"  
  
"Oh!" The Masterman looked startled, as if he'd forgotten. He began to scramble off, but then changed his mind and leaned down to give her a quick peck on the lips. "I am much obliged to you!"  
  
"Oh," Sophie said, once she was standing, "Indeed?" She said this casually, although her mind furious whirled. He had just kissed her – without much feeling, true, but it altogether hadn't been an unpleasant sensation. The feeling felt familiar . . . but she quickly shook off that train of thought, blaming it on the vertigo of déjà vu overwhelming her again.   
  
"He—" the Masterman began, "he – oh never mind. Much obliged; I'm more indebted to you than you would imagine."  
  
Emerging out of the sinking dust-filled air, the two of them closed ranks around the fallen body of the Giant. The once-clear outlines of his body had begun to waver, seeming to shiver in the haze.   
  
"You'd better grab his treasures before he disappears," advised the Masterman.  
  
"Treasures?" Sophie asked uncertainly.  
  
"The usual," he replied. "Comb, brooch, ring – it should be in his breast pocket. Hurry before he fades away."  
  
Sophie cautiously inched up and leaned over the enormously rotund body. Her fingers grasped the desired objects and withdrew. She held a shiny tortoiseshell comb that must have cost a pretty penny, a brooch that looked to be of genuine ruby, and a ring whose stone she could not name. She admired its evanescent beauty, watching as the sunlight caught in its exquisite surface, and seemed to set the stone ablaze with multicolor hues.   
  
"What are they?" she inquired of the Masterman, indicating the treasures in her palm.  
  
"The stuff of legends" was his vague and rather cryptic answer.  
  
I mean what do they do, she had intended to ask, but something else caught her eye, and she cast off the question. The rotund body had begun to shrink, turning an indescribable color that could have vaguely resembled green. The ambiguity of the outline came back into focus. Lying motionless on the ground was a tall fellow with scraggly brown hair. His eyes were closed, but Sophie knew if he were to snap them open, they would be limpid blue. His forest green soldier wear was wearied with dust, mud, and toil, but the Ingary army emblem was recognizable all the same. Not to mention the royal emblem sewed on the breast of his uniform.  
  
Sophie sucked in her breath abruptly as her heart sank tenfold.   
  
Prince Justin?   
  
***  
Author's Note:  
  
Left you off at a cliffhanger, didn't I?  
  
This was one of my most enjoyable chapters to write – in my opinion, it's better than Chapter Eight. But I invite you guys to tell me what you think! Please read and review, it's only decent. If you have speculations about what you think will happen, feel free to include that in your review. Maybe it'll turn out to be similar to what I have planned? (If it is, then, well, great minds think alike!!! Lol.)  
  
I promise you that Howl's on his way, or is he already here? (giving you something to think about.) Hehehe. I tried to drop subtle hints in Chapter Eight as to the identity of the Giant – and there are a few maybe hints in this chapter as to other identities.   
  
Oh, by the way: for those of you who aren't familiar with kohlrabi, salsify, and parsnips.  
  
Kohlrabi = cabbage turnip  
  
salsify = goatsbeard, oyster plant, or oyster vegetable  
  
parsnip = I don't know. Hopefully, everyone knows what a parsnip is. = ) 


	10. In which a Few Things are Revealed about...

There and Back Again: HMC fic  
By Calcifersgrl  
  
Author's Note: I usually do update once a month, so this isn't entirely late (hey, February is a short month!)  
  
I really appreciate all the reviews I've gotten so far! 105! Wow . . . people like this story. Makes me feel loved. = ) Thank you so much!!!  
  
And well, I shan't delay you any more . . . and on with Chapter 10:   
  
* * *   
  
Chapter 10: In which a Few things are revealed about the Masterman  
Sophie didn't suppose there was such a thing as time really standing still, but as she stood there, her mind frozen and watching the Prince's chest, willing it to rise and fall, she could have at least sworn that time had slowed to a crawl. And as time inched by, her ears were suddenly attuned to the noises that she was naturally and usually deaf to. The thundering sound of her own ragged breathing, the irregularity of the Masterman's intake and outtake of air, the sound of hearts beating. She furrowed her brow and strained her ears. No, they hadn't deceived her; there was only one heart beating. Her own. Any disillusion she had shattered. She had been prepared to persuade herself that Prince Justin was still alive. If she tilted her head at an angle, it almost looked like his chest slightly ebbed and flowed with the tide of life. Almost.   
  
She fell forward on her hands and knees and flopped herself over the green uniform, searching for a heart beat. Perhaps, she had overlooked his, as the strong, rhythmic beating of her own heart might have droned out the faint fluttering of Prince Justin's. Her fingers found the nook between his neck and his chin, pressing firmly into the smooth flesh. It was alabaster and cold and still … very still. Sophie closed her eyes, feeling a wave of hopelessness wash over her, and sank into time's slow embrace.   
  
It was the Masterman who broke time's immobility. He crept up timidly behind Sophie and scratched the back of his head in discomfort. "Say," he remarked, "he doesn't really look like the Giant."  
  
Sophie shot a wide-eyed, distraught look at him. Of all the things the Masterman could say. She shook her head wordlessly and got back into a sitting position beside the bunched body. But she had to agree with him. The figure before her didn't bear a resemblance to the Giant, nor did he look like Prince Justin – well, the womanizing Justin she had known before. His face was bruised from the fall, and a thin trickle of vermilion blood had dried on his dirtied temple. The vivid scarlet was the only color to the dirt-smudged but otherwise colorless Prince. His lips were drained of its usual red fullness, taking on a shade that might have resembled blue, and his soldierly hands were cold as ice.   
She laid one hand across his fading green suit, and placed the other between her own and rubbed hard, hoping to incite the warmth back into the lifeless hand. And when she was done, it flopped like a rag doll to the ground of its own accord.  
  
"Leave him." The Masterman's voice was strong, authoritative, and unlike any personality she had seen him portray yet. Sophie glanced up at him, grateful for his assertiveness. She was tired, so tired of being the eldest, playing the role of the babysitter.   
  
He crouched beside her, comfortingly, and rested Justin's hand with the other across his chest. "May he rest in peace," the Masterman murmured, and Sophie was startled to see his eyes shining with tears. A sudden burst of fondness ballooned in her chest, making her heart squeeze. She hadn't realized how grateful she felt for his companionship. Despite being a bumbling, boorish nuisance, his heart really was in the right place.   
  
But because she wasn't used to the pang of affection that strummed her heart, her mind turned to mush. She had meant to say, "Thank you," because those two words could express all that she wished to convey to him, but instead she said, "You're crying." Then she grimaced, firstly, at the grating sound of her own voice, and secondly, at not having meant to blurt her inner musings out. He didn't look at her; he only continued to fixedly stare straight down at the Prince.   
  
Awkwardness beset her. Sophie shifted uncomfortably, and because she felt she needed to follow-up her statement, she said, "But how can you? You don't have a heart." And as the words left her mouth, she knew they were true. There should have been three hearts beating, but she had only heard her own. Neither the Prince nor the Masterman had a heart. The Prince was dead . . . what did that make the Masterman? A golem, perhaps? A clockwork figure disguised as a flesh and blood human being, a servant for . . . . Her breath caught in her throat, as she stared with a mixture of horror and disbelief at her companion. Slowly, she forced her parched mouth open and reiterated, "You don't have a heart, do you?"  
  
He was quicker than she would have given him credit for. His head whipped around and with those eyes that had often stared out with blue innocence, he looked at her suspiciously. "What's the matter?" he asked, an edge to his voice, as if he knew specifically what was wrong.  
  
By that time, they were both standing up, and Prince Justin lay forgotten for the moment in the settling dust. Sophie's heart quickened, yammering inside her chest, as her imagination won over logic. She felt as cold and clammy as Prince Justin, and it took all her effort not to have her legs turn to jelly. Turning young again hadn't helped to un-muddle her mind. She was so foolish, so dense. The pieces should have fallen together before, but she'd let her own sentimentality impair her judgment. She had felt a strange kinship with the Masterman because she too had lost her identity, though she differed in knowing she was still Sophie Hatter. But now she wondered at the absurdity of his explanation.   
  
Multiple personalities, humph, she thought derisively, although it was no time to be scornful. The scorn wasn't really reserved for him, but at herself. The facts lined themselves up, suddenly translucent, and now she understood. Multiple personalities could only explain a wood and gears golem, which couldn't be individualized because it wasn't real, it wasn't human. Such machines could only come two ways: with many personalities or without any at all.   
  
"Nothing," Sophie said, viciously wishing that her voice hadn't just wavered, betraying her true emotions. She backed away, her hand at her throat, with her wide eyes fixed on those of the Masterman. "You have no heart. You're a golem, you're the Witch's golem, you're not real." A thought occurred to her – and she began murmuring under her breath. And yet he didn't stop, as she had silently commanded him to. Sophie's eyes flickered away from his face, and then back, afraid. The Witch must have specially created him to be immune to her magic.   
  
Each step she took backward, he advanced. She didn't dare make a run for it. And still she backed up, trampling vegetables, flowers, dirt, and still he followed.  
  
"What's the matter, Sophie?" he said again, his steady gaze never leaving her face. His voice taunted her, goading and cruel to her ears, and she could have sworn his lips had twisted upward in a vicious half-smile. She involuntarily shivered. Foolish, foolish, foolish girl. Yet, another curse of being born the eldest of three. She had set out on a quest to save everyone she held dear, and had impractically trusted the very first 'amiable' person she had met. It was all wrong.  
  
"Stay back," Sophie warned. "I'm not afraid to use my magic." But the Masterman did not yield; he kept on striding to which Sophie kept on backing away. She nearly tripped over a root before she realized the ridiculousness of her situation. She should have run off long ago. "Oh, confound it all!" she yelped and made as if to speed off as fast as her legs could carry her. Whether it was due to the fact that she had already exhausted herself from the previous run or it was another curse of being the eldest, the Masterman caught her around the waist, holding her in a locked bear hug, and firmly dragged her into his proximity, before turning her in his arms to stare at her questioningly.  
  
Magic hadn't helped her, Sophie realized, but that didn't rule out the possibility of her defending herself physically. She flailed her fists wildly, trying to get out of his iron grip, becoming all the more convinced that he had to be a golem. Otherwise, how could he move so inhumanly fast?  
  
"Sophie," the Masterman said in a helpless, laughing way. "What are you doing? What is going on?"  
  
Sophie continued to attempt wrenching her wrists away and beating his upper body, and managed to grunt out, "As if you didn't know. Just because I'm the eldest of three doesn't mean I'm entirely witless. I know what you are."  
  
The Masterman froze, and his pale face blanched. He let go of her fists, and at this show of peace, Sophie couldn't bring herself to hit him anymore. She looked up at him, distrustfully, but willing to hear his side. "So do I," he said raggedly, with more than just a trace of bitterness laced in his voice. "So do I. I'm heartless," he choked, "and anonymous."  
  
"So it is true then," Sophie said hesitantly, "You are a golem . . . the Witch's golem." What she didn't inquire was what she had wanted to ask instead: are you friend or foe?  
  
Now, the Masterman looked startled. "What witch are you talking about? I haven't seen any green-skinned or wart-covered hags around here." Before Sophie could snort at his displayed ignorance, he continued. "I'm not a golem, heaven forbid. Is that what you thought?"  
  
Sophie nodded mutely, wondering why she was beginning to believe him. She looked at him carefully, in disbelief at how she could have sworn that hardness and scowls had recently adorned his face. This Masterman, this particular personality that he displayed, seemed genuine. He almost seemed like a real person.   
  
"Who are you?" she asked finally.  
  
He mournfully spread out his hands and said, "I didn't lie when I told you I am the Masterman. That's what the Giant always called me, but what I neglected to tell you was that the Giant we felled wasn't the same Giant that kept me prisoner. What you should probably know is--," his voice cut off, strangled in his throat.  
  
Sophie understood immediately; after all, hadn't she undergone the same thing? "You're under a spell," she said quietly.  
  
The Masterman nodded in relief and coughed, finally free of the restraints of the spell. "I don't remember having my heart. I know it must have been there once – I can remember what it feels like to have it throb under my palm," he trailed off wistfully. "Sometimes I'll wake up and I can hear it beating, but," with great sadness he said, "it's always a phantom heart, just a remnant of what was once there. I asked my Giant the whereabouts of it before, but he only slapped his thigh and roared. He said it wasn't mine anymore, and that I wouldn't ever get it back, unless someone gave theirs to me."  
  
His words sparked memories of the very first dream conversation that Sophie had had with the Witch: I see you've given your heart to him, the Witch had said to her. As she dug deeper into the memory, she recalled that the old bat had also remarked that she didn't need a heart to exist. Sophie marveled at how she could have ever forgotten that hearts weren't necessary to propel life, if the spell was done properly.  
  
Fresh anger coursed through her suddenly as she flared up with indignation. She had told the Witch before that she had no right to make jigsaw puzzles of people, and yet, even in her worldly death, the Witch could still control and mold people in her will. Sophie did not doubt that the Witch had dug her iron claws into the Masterman's heart.   
  
But, she told herself, that was what the Witch wanted with Howl's heart . . . .   
  
Not for the first time did Sophie regard the Masterman shrewdly beneath lowered lashes. What troubled her most was the constant question of who the Masterman truly was. What was his role in this story that the Witch sought to entangle all of all them into? She had decided that he was not a golem, but it was clear that the Masterman suffered under a complex spell of the Witch, which meant that he was under her control, and ultimately a creature of hers. It may have been that he was oblivious and unaware of the Witch's power, or perhaps, he was purposely telling less than the entire truth. There were so many unknowns about the Masterman that lay unfathomed, but what she did know, was near certain about, was that the Masterman had a purpose, one that required him to be heartless and anonymous.  
  
If only she could unearth that purpose, for she knew by then that it could not have been mere chance that she had met the Masterman. Even in her existence in dreams, the Witch's power was still potent and her mind still conniving and sharp. The Witch must have had plenty of cards to pull out of her elaborate sleeves – and the Masterman was the first one she had placed in Sophie's path. Him and the Giant. Why? Perhaps, attaching the Masterman to Sophie was the Witch's way of spying on her. Or, perhaps, she had been meant to encounter the Giant, but only been detoured by her decision to choose the rightmost door.  
  
At this Sophie shivered because a most unpleasant thought had just occurred to her. What if the Witch had meant for her to kill Prince Justin – to transfigure the ones she sought to save into the obstacles she needed to overcome? That would be most like her, Sophie thought, shuddering. Just the thought made the hairs on the back of her head tingle: what if the next obstacle   
was her sisters, or Howl?  
  
"Sophie," said the Masterman, his cheeks sucking in with horror, and tugged on her sleeve, "Prince Justin!"   
  
She turned. The Prince's gaunt form was beginning to waver, as if to fade into thin air.   
  
She didn't know what possessed her, but she lunged at the hazy figure, grabbed the closest limp, soot-covered arm, and held on tightly. The vague outlines solidified in her grasp, while the rest of his body continued to fuzz and blur. But evidently, the body could not disappear without the arm, and it ensued that Prince Justin's arm was being viciously yanked from her hold. She tried to yank back, but she only managed to snatch at the musty air: all traces of Prince Justin had disappeared.   
  
At her feet, she found a fresh pile of ashes – so ordinary that she didn't quite believe they belonged to the Prince, and a small, sickly black object wriggling its way up out of the ashes. It tried to hold itself up proudly, but withered as the black flower was, it only managed to droop. Suddenly, without any warning and to Sophie's considerable surprise, the pitiful stem shot up straight as if electrified, and the crisp petals unfurled, slowly but surely, to reveal luscious petals of deep red. Mystified, Sophie couldn't help but reach and pluck it delicately from the ground.   
  
She winced, feeling foolish at having forgotten that although roses were beautiful, they were also deadly. The thorns that lay shielded underneath the blood-red petals had nicked her thumb, drawing three pearl-shaped drops of blood that trickled down her flesh.  
  
Sophie murmured silently to the rose and was delighted when it retracted its tiny thorns obligingly. Then, as if almost in a trance, she reached up unthinkingly to put . . . .  
  
"What are you doing?" the Masterman asked, his eyebrows knit and his face contorted oddly. His jarring voice brought her back to the present.  
  
"Keeping this," she said automatically, and followed through on her   
actions. She jabbed the stem through her red-gold hair and was content to leave it so.   
  
She and the Masterman made their way back to the garden door, seeing no reason as to why they should stay in the garden, but to their bewilderment, there was no trace of the well-formed pillars. Instead, what once had been the patterned tiling of the floor was now dirt and debris. Lofty trees framed the doorway, and shadowed two paths that twisted and turned. Either one didn't strike Sophie as particularly ominous, but then again, most courses that were actually ominous never appeared to be so.  
  
Beside her, the Masterman sighed softly and murmured under his breath: "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference."  
  
Sophie turned to look at him, bemused. "What do you mean?"  
  
He looked flustered, the redness infusing his naturally alabaster cheeks, and then shrugged. "I don't know," he confessed sheepishly. "I have strange sayings like that stored in my head, but I don't know where they come from. They don't seem the sort of thing I would come up with – but somehow, I'm certain that they're a part of me. They have to mean something . . . I just haven't figured out that part yet."  
  
"I think I do understand," Sophie said slowly. "It's called poetry because half of it rhymes, though I can't make heads or tails of that last line." She knew this of course because one of the very first things she did as soon as Calcifer had broken her spell was to invade Howl's library in Wales. Though she hadn't been able to read the funny-shaped words, Howl had dramatically read and acted out a few poems for her. Part of her fascination had lain in the curse that the Witch had set on Howl through John Donne's "Song," as the poem had turned out to be called.   
  
"But," Sophie went on, "it does seem to describe our situation. Which way shall we go? Or does the poem mean that the two roads we might take are the one that lies behind us and the one ahead of us?"  
  
The Masterman's face distorted and said, "I don't think we have that choice," an odd strangled tinge to his voice. And he was right, as Sophie saw when she glanced over her shoulder. The garden had ceased to exist, just as the palace and the Giant had vanished. Instead, a solid stone wall had set itself up where the garden door had once been. "What is this place?" the Masterman breathed fearfully.   
  
Sophie wished she knew. The only answer she could give was ambiguous: "The Witch's concoction – this is her masterpiece, hers everything. Her forest, her garden, her palace, her fairy tales, her warped vision of happily ever after come in dreams . . . all hers. This is her territory – we'll never know what exactly, where exactly this is."  
  
"You mentioned a Witch before," the Masterman began.  
  
"She's the reason I'm here," Sophie said. But she didn't wish to say anymore on the subject. Although the Masterman would be traveling with her, she still didn't trust him a whit. He was still the Witch's creature, whether he was aware of the fact or not.   
  
They chose the right path randomly. The gnarled trees came and went, leafless, white, and doleful. There was not much to the trail, except a few shrunken hedges and an endless littering of fallen twigs and withered vines. Drudgery lined each of their steps, yet they proceeded on until they seemed to be in the very heart of the forest, although, a few hours ago, Sophie had thought they had long since reached the center. Perhaps, they had traveled out on a limb, she mused.  
  
They rested when the trees began to thicken with green leaves and an assortment of ripe fruits, and later stopped for the night as they reached a clearing. The sun was beginning to set, sending out a spectacular array of red, orange, and gold, and the air was beginning to get a bit chilly.   
  
"This should do," Sophie said, as she plopped her weary self down on the grassy ground, and stifled a yawn. She left the Masterman to his own doings, though he only dumbly stood there, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.   
  
"Sophie," he called tensely, "there wouldn't happen to be any wild beasts in this forest? I mean, that wouldn't be the sort of thing to fit nicely with your Witch's humor, would it?"  
  
"I wouldn't put it past her," Sophie replied, rummaging through her knapsack. She was aware of the Masterman's anxious expression, and could stifle the grin no longer. "It's alright," she told him kindly, the nicest she had been to him so far. "Wild beasts won't be mauling either or us tonight." And to demonstrate that she meant it, she muttered a few coaxing words under her breath. The trees rustled understandingly.   
  
The Masterman stared wide-eyed at her. "What did you just do?" he asked, sounding more fascinated than apprehensive.   
  
"I asked the trees to not let any intruders into this clearing," Sophie responded. "We'll be safe."  
  
"Can you do that?" With awe evident in his voice, he gazed at her admiringly. He received his answer when she nodded. Then he stumbled back in surprise when she tossed a little white square at him from her knapsack.  
  
"That's to eat," she said, indicating the sandwich in his hands.  
  
"I'm not entirely without wits," he retorted, though Sophie could see he was grinning.  
  
After the Masterman had built up a roaring fire, they gathered around it, quietly munching their sandwiches. Sophie found she missed the blue, green, purple, and orange flamed face that had always comforted and teased her. This fire was specked with red, but mostly flaring orange and yellow flames. She stared at it, aware of the half-eaten sandwich still resting in her hands, and stared at it. Trying to make out a face, and not quite succeeding. Feeling another bout of loneliness wash over her.   
  
It was dreadful trying to suppress the lump that had risen in her throat. And trying to stare and stare into the flames without having her eyes sting from the heat, and water.  
  
"You should eat," the Masterman said, breaking the silence. He had finished his and was nonchalantly licking the jam from his fingers.   
  
Sophie smiled ruefully at him, and held the bread up to her lips, but didn't eat it. She put it down again in her lap, fidgety, and said at last, trying to put her thoughts into words, "When you glance at a fire, do you ever see a . . ."  
  
"Face?" the Masterman asked. He grinned wryly and shrugged. "I've always seen faces everywhere," and then his grin wavered and was gone. "But I don't remember that either. I used to see faces on doors . . . I think, perhaps, when I was younger. And sometimes when I stare at fires, I can make out a pair of beady eyes staring at me, but perhaps that was just my imagination gone awry. I can remember other faces . . . ." He was silent for a moment, rocking back and forth, with his knees drawn up and his arms draped around them. A foolish grin spread from ear to ear. A self-conscious blush blazed across his face, quite red: "And there was this girl . . ." the Masterman trailed off wistfully. "She'd sometimes swim into my memories. Funny thing is that I know she's quite beautiful, but I've never seen her actual face. She has hair like yours I recall – sort of ginger, isn't it?"  
  
"Red-gold," Sophie replied curtly, as the ambiguity of her hair color always smarted with her.  
  
"Of course," the Masterman said vaguely. "It's strange how all of my memories end and begin at the Giant. I know I've never built a fire in my life, but my hands seem to know how. It's as if the memories in my head aren't really mine, as if they've planted there. Or maybe it's the memories of the girl, and the doors, and the faces that are the ones planted."  
  
He sighed, and stopped rocking.   
  
Sophie sighed, and packaged the half-eaten sandwich, promising to eat it the next day.   
  
They spent the next hours of the night, telling tales and spinning stories; neither of them talked about themselves any longer. And when they found that they were hoarse from the telling, they set about to find a place to sleep.   
  
Under the canopy of the trees, Sophie found soft moss which they could use for pillows, and the Masterman raked together two piles of fallen leaves. It wasn't the most comfortable way to sleep, Sophie thought, as she and the Masterman burrowed under the leaves. But it was warm, and she hadn't thought to take a blanket from Mrs. Fairfax's house. All in all, she reflected, curled up with her back against that of the Masterman's, she couldn't have thought of a better way to fall asleep. The clear night sky above her, Sophie found that the dark clouds had rolled away, and that tiny pinpricks of light were clearly visible. If she squinted hard enough at a cluster of pulsating blue stars, she could almost make out a face. Calcifer had once been a star, she thought and yawned.   
  
And with that, her eyelids snapped shut, her head still tilted up at the sky.  
  
A familiar voice pierced her dreams, but Sophie had by then gotten so used to it, that she tried to ignore the melodious throb and plunged further into a sleeping state.  
  
But it was hard to disregard the despairing shriek that arose from the Witch. Her cry of "Lost!" reverberated in Sophie's head over and over again, until she was quite dizzy and annoyed that she was still awake.   
  
"Be quiet, you!" she said fiercely into the darkness that was quite still, except for the quiet, even breathing of the Masterman. And with that, her mind was suddenly cleared of the Witch's voice; quite willingly, she fell asleep, more exhausted than she had even guessed.   
  
* * *   
  
Author's 2nd Note: I had some trouble with this chapter, but I'm actually more pleased with it than before. I had written this up a week or so ago, but it was positively DREADFUL – but I think I've caught all the errors . . . umm, and don't forget to review!!!   
Hehehe. Chapter 11 might come out before a month is over – not promising anything, but I'm just hinting it as a "maybe."  
And since I've written half of it, albeit a rather jumbled half, that's most likely a yes. And I promise that you will like that chapter. ; )  
  
~ Calcifersgrl 


	11. In which Sophie discovers the perils of ...

There and Back Again

By Calcifersgrl

CH 11: In which Sophie discovers the perils of water

Author's Note:  It's late.  I know, I know.  I'm sorry.  It was spring break for me – and what can I say, I went on a vacation.  I had this chapter done earlier this week, but it was horrible.  Truly horrible.  Horrendously horrible.  Sickeningly terrible . . . I think you get the picture.  = )

            And then I got sick.  Horribly sick.  I totally sympathize with Howl on colds.  It does make one's head go around and around.  And I most definitely ran into my bedroom door, though I did not remember to exclaim that my bed must have been dodging! (oh – we all love Howl.  So endearing . . . ) ; )

            And now this is the result.  I have to say that I am rather pleased with the result.  And the nice chapter still hasn't arrived yet – I know, I know – I always promise a Howl chapter, and it never comes.  It's NOT my fault – well it is . . .  but you know what I mean!  Things just never happen the way I want it to!

            But here's the bonus about being late: it's LONGER than previous chapters.  It used to be about 5-6 pages (which is how long most of my chapters are), back when it was horrendously and shamefully awful.  Now it's 9 pages!  YAY!  (waves pompoms – except I'm not a cheerleader . . . I have nothing against cheerleaders, I'm just not a fan of them.)

            And now comes the thanking section, after all, where would a fanfiction writer be without her posse, her unbelievably great reviewers!  Cheers to you all!  (No, I'm not English.  Though, I'd LOVE to be . . . after all, my favorite authors are all English.)

Erie Maxwell: thanks for such fun and long reviews (which I've already thanked you for, but thanks again! – just to let you know how much I do appreciate them!)

Carebear: yeah! I adore long reviews – thank you so much!

Secret: thanks for the compliment!

Jen: you're onto something – it's good you're noticing the similarities between the Masterman and Howl.  It's intended . . .  and I'm not saying anymore!

Ness: more questions than answers in it – I suppose that's intended.  Thanx for reading.

ChocolateEclar: hmm . . . good guess . . . not giving anything away though.  = )

To Hayley, Kendra, Jepa, Lighteningbug, angelicarising, and my other reviewers – thank you very much.

And of course to Megan . . . (how could I forget! – which shows you that I DIDN't forget. . . ) THANK YOU SO MUCH! for telling me the words and translations to the saucepan song! And for all the other e-mails and chats and discussions. 

I have almost taken up an entire page with all this thanking and author's note stuff.  Sorry!  Hope you like this chapter . . . .

* * *

Chapter 11: In which Sophie discovers the perils of water 

            Sometime in the night, Sophie woke to find herself shivering, having rolled out from underneath the security of the leaf pile.  With a mixture of sleepiness and sourness on her face, she noted that the Masterman had taken over her side of the makeshift bed and was sleeping soundly, except for an occasional twitch or a sleep-induced whine.  

She was crosser still to find the dull embers only emitting one pathetically thin spire of smoke.  Wrapping her arms around herself and rubbing the gooseflesh to inspire some sense of warmth, she hobbled over to the expiring fire, stopping to gather a few unused sticks of timber.  

"You're not to die out, you hear?" she murmured once the fire had gotten started.  "Don't stop blazing until morning, at the very least."  The fire, as if hearing her spoken command, flared up and seemed to nod its flamed head.

            "That's better," she said and yawned loudly.  She tottered the few feet back to the collectively shared leaf pile and glared irritably at the tousled black head.  "Oh, alright," she grumbled to herself, after concluding that training her eyes on him would not induce him to magically scoot over.  "I almost wish you _were a golem."  But she managed to clamber over the Masterman without tripping, and buried herself deep beneath the leaves.  Soon, she was asleep again._

            Sophie was pleased when she awoke in the morning to see that the fire was still blazing strong.  But some things did not change: the Masterman had once again bumped her off of the provisional bed, and she was left shivering on the debris-covered ground.  

She rose slowly, her limbs creaking from a night's worth of curling up on the uneven ground.  She brushed off the clumps of dirt that, combined with the morning dew, managed to cling frustratingly to her dress.  Although she was met with some success, multitudinous brown smears now streaked across her once-green, but now nearly unrecognizable and tattered dress.

"Oh, drat," she grumbled and as if to make her spirits sink any lower, her stomach gave an ear-splitting growl.  Breakfast would have to be made before she could do anything about the dress.  Her stomach now smugly humming its protest of hunger, Sophie searched through her knapsack, only to come across the half-eaten jelly sandwich from the night before.  

Her eyes flicked distastefully from the sandwich in her hand to the Masterman.  He had spread himself horizontally over the makeshift bread, and had commenced to snore softly.  A look of goofy dreaminess crossed his face.  He uttered a sleepy sigh and rolled over onto his side, the smile still stretched across his lips.

She snorted: no doubt his dreams were filled with the image of his faceless red-haired girl.  Sophie threw the bread back into the dark depths of the knapsack in disgust.  She'd find her breakfast elsewhere; the sandwich would be reserved for lunch.  Throwing one last irritable glare at the Masterman, she stalked off beyond the trees that tightly encircled their campsite.  

"Honestly," she said, tapping her foot impatiently, when the trees refused to let her through.  "This is a bit much.  I am the one who cast the spell in the first place.  Stand aside!  Please," she added, pointedly.  The trees meekly withdrew their stern branches and silently watched her pass into the underbrush.

She hadn't needed to worry about a lack of food.  The lush bushes and trees were dotted with an abundance of reddish-purple berries, and a variety of exotic fruits.  Excited at the prospect at eating something other than mundane food from Ingary, Sophie clambered into the thicket, and began plucking luscious-looking berries and dropping them into her skirt, which she held up at the hem.  She was careful not to eat them; after all, the forest paradise was the Witch's creation.  There was no telling whether the fruits were truly edible.  

She told herself that she was enjoying herself, that she hadn't enjoyed herself this much since the Witch had catapulted her into the heart of her game.  That she was having more fun than darning socks or sweeping the floor back at the Castle.  It was a feeble case to argue, she knew, but nevertheless, she stubbornly stuck to pretending that she was happy.  

And perhaps, there was some truth in her obstinate resolve.  She welcomed the light touches of the rising sun on her back, the breeze ruffling her hair.  She didn't altogether mind the way red and purple juice ran over her fingers and stained them in a less-than-subtle way.  She wasn't too perturbed when the berries left lasting stains on her already-discolored dress.  

Deciding to make the most of it, and giddy and slightly intoxicated from the fruit's wondrous scent, Sophie shoved away all misgivings and popped a purple-red berry into her mouth.  She let the color stain her mouth and stomach with its heavenly flavor.  With that one taste, her picking process slightly slowed, as every once in a while, she would insert a berry into her mouth.

            The sun had scarcely been hanging in the blue sky for an hour when Sophie decided that she had picked enough berries to last the whole day.  Humming the silly saucepan song that Calcifer had hammered into her head so long ago, as it seemed, Sophie made her way back through the thicket, one arm holding up the hem of her dress, the other pushing away the impeding branches.  

_"Sospan fach yn berwi ar y tân  
Sospan fawr yn berwi ar y llawr  
A'r __gath__ wedi scrapo Joni bach," she sang, quite off-pitch, but in high spirits.  She had _

learned the Welsh words to the tune from Howl, but because it was such a queer and difficult language, she could only remember the lines that contained the word "saucepan."  

            She hummed the next bit, her voice hitting the right notes every now and then, and then sang: 

"_Sospan fach yn berwi ar y tân_

_Sospan fawr yn gollwng ar y llawr_

_A'r__gath__ wedi huno yn ei hedd_."

            Silly was the only word to describe the Saucepan song.  Curious at the way the foreign words twisted her tongue, she had asked Howl what the words meant.  

Howl had leaned across the sink counter on his elbow, his ankle crossed neatly over the other.  He had been aiming for a sophisticated, sleek look, but seeing how he _was _wearing a loose bathrobe and pink bunny slippers, his sophistication was lost on Sophie.  Still, his bewildering gorgeousness hit his mark – a bullseye -  as it did every time.  Cupid's arrow strummed her heart each time she saw him, and she hated him for it.  It was puppy love.  Infatuation.  School girl's crush – although, Sophie admitted to herself, she had finished being a school girl a year ago.  She sat on the stool, for once very glad indeed that she had reddish hair, so that when her face turned tomato-red, it wouldn't look too out of the ordinary.  Sophie concentrated on the stitching in her hands, only daring to look up after the flush had died away.  Howl grinned cheekily at her, and Calcifer, hovering in the grate, sputtered knowingly.  Sophie glared at the both of them, reacting the only way she knew how.  Inside, she was deeply mortified.  Luckily, Howl's angular face shifted from cheekiness to somberness, a look that was quite usual for him, as he was always pretending solemnity.  And then he patronizingly translated line by line of the saucepan song:

Mary Ann has cut her finger  
And Dafydd the servant isn't well.  
The baby in the cradle is crying  
And the cat has scratched little Johnny.  
The little saucepan boiling on the fire  
The big saucepan boiling on the floor  
And the cat has scratched little Johnny.  
  
Mary Ann's finger is better  
And Dafydd the servant is in his grave.  
The baby in the cradle is laughing  
And the cat is peacefully asleep.  
The little saucepan boiling on the fire  
The big saucepan forgotten on the floor  
And the cat is peacefully asleep.

Her forehead crinkled and her eyebrows furrowed.  "Good heavens," Sophie said at last, putting down her darning in her lap.  "What a queer mixture of sentences.  Dafydd the servant is in his grave, indeed.  Is that your country's idea of a lullaby?"

            Howl looked down his nose at her, as if surveying her from behind lenses, his flickering green eyes boring into hers quite loftily.  "For your information, Miss Moralizer, yes it is.  Good show of my patriotism.  I love Wales, but Wales doesn't love me.  Sad, really, playing rugby as I do and my country not even caring a whit."

            Sophie shot a dubious look at him.

            Howl continued in that uppity tone.  "It's perfectly suitable as either a lullaby or a rugby chant.  Just shows how versatile we Welshmen are.  One minute, we're perfectly capable of lulling someone to sleep and the next, banging our beer bottles in a drunken frenzy.  Rugby Club Reunion, you know," he said, shaking his protruding index finger meaningfully.

            "Versatile," Sophie repeated, incredulous.  She didn't bother to further comment.  She merely went back to mending Michael's frayed, and much-weathered sock.

            Sophie sighed from the memory.  Her arm was aching from lugging the large satchel of berries through the forest.  Versatile.  Howl had always had a way with words.  She brightened when she saw the fairy ring cluster that marked the makeshift campsite.  But instead of a blazing fire where a snoring young man slept nearby, her eyes were met with the vision of a large gorge.   

            A wide river ran through the center of the ravine, decorated by sharp rocks and loose pebbles.  Sophie absently licked the berry juice off her finger, and then sharply looked at her hand.  Her hand was very much purple.  A discolored royal purple sheen, as if she had had a very bad bruise.    

"Oh, drat," she grumbled with half as much heart.  But the conviction had already formed in her head before her feet had even begun to move.  Her ears could only process the sound of clear, sparkling water.  Water.  Wash.  

            Eagerly yet cautiously, she made her way down the valley side until she stood on the mossy bank.  There, she ripped the bottom quarter of her dress off to contain the purpleberries, and set the tied bundle on a flat rock slab.  Sophie then crept to the river side, and yanked off her shoes and socks, and gingerly dipped a toe into the water.

            She cringed.  It was quite cold, but the idea of being _clean_ was absolutely tantalizing, outweighing her reluctance to freeze.  She shrugged off her clothes, gathered the dirty dress in one arm, and plunged into the water.  Sophie gasped, her teeth chattering, her entire skin on cold fire, numb down to her toes.

            She distinctly heard melodious tinkering behind her, and then silence.  Shuddering, she slowly turned her head, and called, "Who's there?"  There was no response.  Sophie's eyes flickered down to the water surface.  Had there only been her in the river, there would have been only one disturbed ripple.    

            "Walk," she commanded through shuddering teeth, and forced her frozen legs to move.  She waded through the water, and when her feet no longer touched the bottom of the river, she treaded and swam.  All the while, her eyes roved the river surface for a trace of the quiet laughter. 

            "I must have dreamed it," Sophie whispered after giving the river a full scrutiny.  She relaxed against a large rock, feeling far too paranoid for her own good.

            She found a large quantity of soapstone baking in the morning sun, and an ivory carved comb resting in a small crevice in the rock.  Though the notion of soap was appealing, Sophie was more intrigued by the comb.  It did not look as combs usually did – with numerous teeth on a stick.  In fact, she thought, peering closely at its teeth, it more so resembled a fork.    

Spending a good number of minutes wading in the river, she finally became accustomed to the coldness, and dunked herself under water for a good rinsing.  Coming up for air, she gave her scalp a good rubbing, her fingers slightly apprehensive.  After having climbed up a beanstalk, been chased by a Giant, wreaked havoc in a garden, and slept in the woods, Sophie was almost certain she'd have mites and all sorts of critters nesting in her hair.

She threaded the forked comb through her hair.  It glided through easily, without being hindered by elf-knots and various tangles.  She dunked herself a third time, washing off the excess soapstone, and smiled, cheerily.  Her skin was a healthy pink from scrubbing, giving some color to her naturally fair skin.  She felt awfully refreshed, as if she could battle a Giant any day.

Something or someone gave a good yank on her hair.  And giggled.

"OW," Sophie protested loudly, her face screwed in a grimace.  Her limp hair flapped about her shoulders as she whipped herself around, expecting to glare accusingly at the culprit.  She had the faintest glimpse of two green pool-like eyes, wide and childish, staring up at her from the water surface.  And then the water ripples distorted the image, and it was gone. 

            Sophie's lips parted nervously as she backed up against the rock, and hugged her sopping wet dress against her for protection.  "Who's there?" she cried, with more force than previously.

            The same high-pitched giggle sounded.  And echoed, bouncing off the low valley walls.

            "Who's there?" Sophie said for the third time.

            A small thin hand snaked out of the water to pet Sophie's hair.  "Pretty," the creature said.  Sophie stared, her eyes wide in shock, and recoiled from the alien touch.  The creature had long, curling naturally green hair that must have reached down to her toes.  She had large round green eyes that peeped mischievously out of a small, heart-shaped face that was spattered with small brown freckles.  

            And then she dove under the water in a resounding splash.  Only then did Sophie notice that she was horribly mistaken about the toes part; a shining iridescent green fish tail smashed the water surface and sent a torrent of water drops raining down on her face.  She was a mermaid.  

            Sophie sputtered, blinking away the water that had collected around her eyes like tears.  

            Faintly perplexed, she wondered how there could be mermaids in a body of fresh water?  It was unthinkable.  Then, she remembered that everything was of the Witch's creation.  Sophie shrugged inwardly.  It made no difference to her if the Witch's fancy was fresh water mermaids.  At least, the poor creatures wouldn't be quite so thirsty.  It was an age-old riddle: where was the one place you could be where you were surrounded by water, but ever thirsty?  The sea.

            She quirked a smile through her streaming eyes.  Martha had retold it to her when they had been in grade school.  Clearly proud of herself, Martha had then proceeded to relate it to any unlucky stranger who happened to approach her.

            But Sophie's ambivalence to the mermaids quickly vanished in a moment.  When her vision had cleared, she was absolutely mortified to find a dozen pale, skinny arms reaching out to touch her hair.  

            "Oh, oh," Sophie said frantically, backing away even further against the rock, not being able to find the right words to say, and furiously trying to bat away the outstretched fingers that curled slightly downward to resemble claws.  "Stop it.  Stop it, stop it!"

            The ring of fingers stopped grabbing, and slowly lowered themselves into the water.  Six green heads emerged, their lovely hair swirling on the water surface.  They gazed at her with wide, doe-like eyes.  

One mermaid tilted her head prettily to one side and said in a no-nonsense tone: "Really, I don't see all the fuss that Annabel made about her.  Her mouth is hanging open like a fish . . ."

"Her voice is the sound of river reeds scratching against one another in the wind . . ." another mermaid continued, as lovely as the first.

"And," a third mermaid with thoughtful eyes cut in, "her hair isn't that much of a something after all.  Her hair is like blood and straw mixed in one.  But _I would rather prefer my own hair!"_

Sophie, whose mouth had indeed been hanging open like a fish, quickly clamped her jaw shut.  Then she quickly opened her mouth to say, "I beg your pardon!"  But the words never made it out of her throat.

            "Oh, please can we keep her?" the fourth mermaid begged the first mermaid, who tossed her green hair in an imperious manner.  

            "Please, please, please," added the fifth mermaid.

            "Please," joined in the sixth (and rather tubby) mermaid, who flashed an envious look at Sophie.  "She has _legs," she said with awe evident on her near-translucent face._

            Sophie flushed and hugged the dress even tighter, if that was possible.  All of the mermaids, except the third mermaid, were flashing her jealous looks.  Literally _green_ with envy.

            "Legs," scoffed the first mermaid.  

"Useless contraptions," sneered the second mermaid, with a toss of her green hair. 

"Can she swim with them?" asked the third mermaid.  The thoughtfulness had died from her eyes.  She had seemed the kindest, but Sophie realized, as she stared into the endless depths of the mermaid's eyes, that that was not so.  It was ruthlessness in disguise.

Sophie swallowed.  Her eyes momentarily flickered up at the cliff top, and seeing no one there, flickered back to the grassy bank that now seemed a long way off.

But she had no time to ponder, for suddenly, in a splash of water, flailing fins and screeches, the third mermaid's cold-blooded hands were shoving Sophie's head under water.  And Sophie was shoving right back.

"Geroff me," she managed to scream before she swallowed liquid and her words were also swallowed as her face submerged under the water once more.

"Can't the human swim?" taunted the mermaid, though to Sophie who was still fighting her way back up to the surface, her voice was muddled.  But the dangerous edge to it was still very clear.

Sophie clawed at the steely, cold fingers entwined with her own.  Her lungs were bursting.  She wrenched the fingers away and shot up to the surface with a gasp of relief.  

In those seconds of air, she muttered under her breath hurriedly and stumbling, and miraculously, the river began to turn and bubble and undulate, as if it were really the sea.  It rushed up with a roar, foam spouting on the crests of its waves, in a most sea-like fashion, and it swept away the imperious third mermaid, who was too astonished for words, and went away flailing her pale arms, apparently having forgotten that she _could swim._

So it was with considerable ease that Sophie cautiously swam her way back to the grassy bank, stopping three feet short before turning around to glare ferociously at the flabbergasted mermaids, who bobbed in the receding waves.  They recoiled from her glower.  Looking quite chastened, they hastily dove away, their green hair streaking the blue water. 

"Ahoy," called an amused voice from above her.  A male voice.  Sophie started to turn around, her hand shielding her eyes, before she realized exactly where she was and what she was holding.  Or what she should have been holding but was not.  Luckily, the dress was floating nearby, and she snatched it in her arms, protectively.  

She squinted at the figure some feet up at the edge of the ravine, looking down.  What she saw made her footing nearly slip.  His profile.  She swallowed hard, wondering what the matter was with her.  She had almost thought that it was Howl, and not the Masterman, framed by the sun's warming rays.  Which was just plain silliness.  Recognizing a face was perfectly understandable, but recognizing a profile was ludicrous.

Although, Sophie thought meekly, the ears had looked clearly familiar.  And so had the nose.  Especially the way Howl's nostrils would somewhat flare up in indignation, or when he was pretending to be grieved and injured.  Which was also ridiculous, she chastised herself and blinked back what she thought might have been tears.    

Suddenly, the water around Sophie rolled.  She had the strongest suspicion that the mermaids had returned again.  She turned her head and found that she was right.  Five green heads had popped out of the water, and they were looking at the Masterman with considerable interest.  Their green eyes sparkled, and they had apparently found enough time to plait collections of shells through their lustrous green hair.  Sophie disliked them even more than she had before.      

"A man!" one mermaid said to another, not even in hushed whispers, loud enough for the Masterman to hear.

"A man!" the others chorused, and then collectively, they batted their eyelashes seductively at the male figure.

The Masterman blinked, his eyebrows near shooting off his face.  And then he grinned, quite pleased.  

"A man!" Sophie said, mocking them.  She snorted in disgust, and caught the identical looks of repulsion upon each mermaid's face, and settled for grumbling softly, feeling quite put off.  She wondered when she had sunk so low as to let brazen hussies make her feel embarrassed. 

"A man," she repeated once more, off-handedly and tried to look pointedly down her nose at the Masterman.  A very hard thing to do, seeing as he stood some feet above her on a ledge.  "What are you doing here?" she had to shout through the sudden swell of singing that had erupted behind her.

But the Masterman paid her no heed.  His eyes were glued to the lovely heads of the mermaids that bobbed in the swaying river, his ears tuned only to their lovely song.  

Sophie turned halfway to look at the singing mermaids, exasperated.  The mermaids had managed to poise themselves to present a most seductive and scheming picture.  The first mermaid blew an air kiss to the Masterman, and the Masterman, as if in a trance, began to wobble on unsteady legs down the steep slope.  

Bemused, Sophie looked on.  Not being male, she was neither enchanted nor impressed by the mermaids' siren song.  It was rather a let down, it being so ordinary.  She had heard of the infamous siren song that bespelled the hearts of men and led them to their doom.  But now that she actually had heard the song in person, she wasn't quite convinced that it wasn't the silliness of men that had in fact shipwrecked them.  Oh, the mermaids fluted and fluttered like nightingales at midnight, warbled and wailed, lamenting in a strange underwater language, but it was no more a spell than Sophie's own saucepan song.

            However, the Masterman trudged on, his reluctant but moving legs sending a small landslide of gravel down the slope.  Up close, he was not as relaxed and well-rested as she had previously thought.  Sophie could see that his eyes were rather red-rimmed and slightly puffy, peering out at her with glazed, but nevertheless, tragic blue intensity.  Even now, in the bright morning sunlight, his long tapered hands were pale and pasty, rather as if he was going to melt away any moment.  And still, he walked on, with a mechanical jerk to his movements.

            It doesn't matter what his eyes say, Sophie thought with some viciousness, for his eyes looked on the green mermaids with intense adoration, she would not stand for another bout of feminist malice.  First the Witch, now the mermaids, and uneasily, she thought she might have to add herself to that list; the world _was_ full of hard-hearted women.  

            "Oh, do be quiet!" Sophie snapped waspishly at the mermaids.  And to her considerable surprise, the mermaids clamped their lips shut.  They looked at her warily, aware of her shrewish mood, and then glanced at the Masterman, whose eyes were squeezed shut and knees were pressed against each other.  But most importantly, he had stopped moving.

            "Really," Sophie berated, "it's bad enough when men think they're God's gift to women.  You should see them strutting to and fro in their dandiest costumes, beer tankards in hand, accosting as they will.  It's even more appalling when women don the same attitude.  Shameless hussies!  Sirens, indeed!"  Under her breath, she muttered, "They're more like seagulls, if I have any say in this."

            The mermaids merely stared at her impassively, raising their fine green eyebrows delicately, their limpid green eyes reflecting the rippling of the river surface.  Then, they flipped their curling green hair and dove into the darker depths, out of view.

            Sophie let out her breath.  She hadn't known she'd been holding it, until she exhaled in relief.  It had been a close call.  Sophie hadn't really realized how dangerous the Witch's fairy land could be, but the incident with the mermaids aroused her caution.  She had nearly been drowned, and so had the Masterman.  One thing puzzled her though: she couldn't quite figure out why the Witch would have the Masterman dead.  Was it for sport?  Surely, Sophie's encounter with the murderous mermaids was not by chance, but perhaps, the Witch had not figured the Masterman into the episode.  The mermaids had, afterall, cried out, "A man, a man!" in wonderment.  Or, perhaps, luring men to their deaths was just what mermaids did best.  

            Sophie realized that she was shivering, and called up through the wet glint in her eyes, "Are you alright?"

            Meanwhile, the Masterman had pulled himself together, still pale and agitated with dark circles around his eyes, but he was quickly proceeding down the hill slant.  "Just . . ." he said and paused, wincing from a thought, "I'll be alright," he finished, not planning on continuing with his previous train of thought.  "You must be freezing."

            "Not quite," Sophie said in answer with a grin.  And then jumped back in alarm.  "You are not to come any further," she warned, pressing the dress once more against her, although she was careful not to back away too far into the river.  Who knew what had become of the mermaids.

            He had stepped onto the bank then, which was too close for comfort.  The Masterman rolled his eyes quite easily, the movement strange in his pallid face, but he dangled a cloth-made object from his hand.  "I thought you might need an extra set of clothes," he explained, running a hand through his curly black hair.  And then he smiled wanly again, "And I see you're much in need of it."

            "Thank you," Sophie said sourly.  "If you don't mind, I'll need some space and privacy," and she made a gesture with her hand as if to shoo him off.  "And you can toss my knapsack down by that rock if you please," she said.

            The Masterman shrugged and stalked off up the slope, leaving Sophie by herself.  She twisted the water out of her hair, and gave her tattered dress a good scrub, whispering under her breath all the while.  The whispering seemed to have improved the dress a good deal.  It was still tattered and quite homely, but the brown and purple streaks had disappeared.  Sophie climbed up the bank and shook herself, hoping to replicate Howl's trick of turning dry.

            "Oh bother," she said crossly, not the least bit dry and colder than before.  The sun had chosen to hide its head behind some rather ferocious-looking clouds.  The air had gotten chillier, and Sophie's teeth began to chatter.  

            She hunted through her knapsack for her blue dress and came upon a small vial, in which she had stored some of Howl's marvelous Drying Power.  It was quite handy to be over-prepared.  Throwing a small pinch in the air and hoping she wouldn't acquire rashes, she waited for the small drops of water to disappear.  The next moment, she was dry.  Wonderingly, she fingered a red-gold curl, noting how her hair was not the slightest bit damp.  She speculated when she would ever stop being amazed at the marvel of magic.    

Dry, clean, and wearing her blue dress, Sophie donned the knapsack and shouldered the satchel full of berries.  She made her way up the slope with slow deliberation.

The Masterman was perched on a rock, his feet drawn up under his arms.  He seemed to be mulling over some thoughts.

She broke his reverie by slamming the berry satchel into his lap.  He started. 

"Took long enough," he said, giving her a dirty look.

Sophie shot a tentative smile at him, unsure whether he was really irate.  And if he was annoyed and upset, she was perplexed as to the source of his anger.  But his look subsided into one of blankness, wiped of all emotion and thoughts.  She decided to think nothing of it, and attributed his current mood to his mercurial personality.

"I got breakfast," she offered and was glad to see a small smile emerge on his face.

"Good," he said.  "I'm starving," and he pushed himself off the rock and followed her back through the woods.  

* * *                             

      2nd Author's Note: If you were wondering about the fork-comb – I was thinking of Disney's The Little Mermaid.

            YAY!  I have also figured out how to format this, so that I can keep the italics and stuff!

            And don't forget to write me a review!!!  And a long, nice, friendly review would be wonderful!!!  (HINT HINT!)  = )  Nice reviews make me remember why I stayed up to 1:45 am editing and posting this chapter!  (jk – I really did stay up this late, am staying up this late.  It's cuz I can't sleep.  AHH!!!  A nice long 8 hours worth of community service awaits me tomorrow.  I'm going to rebuild a house – fun, fun, fun . . .  especially after last time, I swear I almost found a dead body . . . .  but that's another story . . . 

            GOOD NIGHT! (for me, at least!) = )


	12. In which Sophie and the Masterman head i...

There and Back Again

By Calcifersgrl

Author's Note: It's late.  I know.  I'm sorry.  Forgive me . . . for those of you were anxiously awaiting the next chapter.

            As always, a thank you to my reviewers.  Your reviews make my day.  (Heehee, my goals are getting higher and higher as I am hoping to one day break 200 REVIEWS!!! . . . and of course, you could help make that happen. *hint hint* = )

            It's currently 2:08 am.  I think I do my best work at night.  And ooh, I'm not yawning yet!  Must be all those strawberry smoothies I drank at 11:30 . . . . .

Anyway, on with the story!  = )

***

Chapter 12: In which Sophie and the Masterman head into Autumn 

"Sophie," the Masterman said for the third time, "I think we're lost."  He was in a grey mood, and the greyness showed on his face.  His eyebrows seemed permanently etched downward on his face.  And his bright blue eyes were clenched and impatient.  His every stride was heavy and sullen, thunder on the quiet surface of the forest.  

She had been wondering when he'd repeat those despairing words, though she was a bit surprised that a torrent of complaints hadn't followed that sentence.  They had been wandering the labyrinthine forest for days, their vision blurred from the endless plots of wild shrubbery, their feet nearly rubbed raw from walking.  

To lessen the dreariness of a journey with no definite end, they told more stories, some from their own lives, some from their imagination.  Sophie told him about Market Chipping, and about Lettie and Martha.  But she refrained from explaining about Howl and the Moving Castle and the Witch.  Those memories were too deeply lodged in her heart, and to reveal them, to let another probe so deeply into her, was something she could not do.  But these thoughts did not matter.  Sophie and the Masterman had a mutually unspoken agreement not to ask personal questions. They each only told the other what he/she wished to say.  The Masterman, in turn, told her outlandish stories of people who could fly, and of instant fires and water-resistant clothes, of a place and time where magic did not exist.

"Is this a real place and time?" she had asked, at last.  He described them not as if he made it up, but as if it were real.  He painted pictures in her head, watercolors, cascades, and she was dizzy.

"No."  The Masterman was unsure, frowning to himself.  He had locked his pale hands around his knee, and tilted his head to face the night sky jeweled with tiny stars.  "I don't know," he confessed.  "I told you once that I have pictures and places, words and memories stored in my head that I know really nothing about.  These stories aren't mine or maybe I don't belong in these stories.  Sometimes, I feel like these memories are mine, like they belong to me, that I'm the only one who has access to them.  Other times, they are alien to my mind.  I don't think I'll ever know.  I don't think I'll ever know who I am too.  The Giant –, " he said, "the real giant – not your Prince Justin – he knew who I was.  But I don't suppose we'll ever find him . . . ."    

Sophie pulled herself out of her memories to regard the desolateness around them, as a yellow-orange leaf gently fell on her shoulder.  She looked at it and realized it was no longer summer.  The bright green shrubbery that had marked their path had yellowed, turning a sickly brown, and withered.  The leaves of the trees around them were golden, and fire-hued.  The dirt beneath them was cold and somewhat moist, unlike the dry, aridness of the summer dirt.  She stopped walking, and glanced at the way they had come.  

How odd, she thought.  Even in the distance, she could see the lurid greenness of the trees, the same green and brown scenery that had accompanied their journey from the start.  

"What?" snapped the Masterman.  He was in a foul mood, and he glowered at her.  

She realized she had spoken aloud.  "Look at the trees," she said, motioning with her hand at the stark difference between the goldenwoods and greenwoods.  

"So?" asked the Masterman, impatiently tapping his foot on the dirt path.  "It's called the changing of the seasons," he drawled.  "Nature."

"I know that," Sophie snapped back, and glared at him.  Fine, she thought, two can play this game.  There were days when the Masterman was as smooth as silk, and then there were days when he was just plain ornery.  That day, Sophie decided, glancing first at the gold-but-blackening clouds to the Masterman's blackening mood, was definitely one of the latter.  She wasn't sure which she'd rather have: a spiteful Masterman or a flirtatious one.  She couldn't quite deliberate one as bad or good, for a flirtatious Masterman was nearly as damaging and sometimes more so than a moody Masterman.  On more than one account, the Masterman had sidled up to her, either raising his expressive eyebrows suggestively, or flashing a dazzling white grin her way, or making rather cheeky comments.

"You're trying to seduce me!" she had shouted at him once, when she'd gotten truly exasperated, and had thrown her hands up in the air in her annoyance.

            The Masterman had looked hurt, his alabaster cheeks tinged with the slightest red.  "Sophie, you wound me!" he'd said in mock sorrow, shaking his black curls.  "You make me sound like a common criminal, as if I had actually harassed you – "     

"–Not that far off the mark," Sophie had shouted, interrupting him.

            He ignored her interruption, as he often did.  "I have never been so –" he floundered, searching for the right word.

            "– wounded, hurt, distressed?" muttered Sophie underneath her breath, still glowering.

            "– offended," the Masterman concluded, pressing a hand to his chest in mock horror.  "What has happened to chivalry?" he lamented.  "Of days gone by, where men honored women and laid their hearts at their feet.  And spread their velvet cloaks upon the ground where the women trod.  Where a man could praise a woman's beauty or smile at her, and _not be snapped at . . ."_

            She suppressed the urge to shout, _What heart?  "You," Sophie said loudly, pointing her finger, "were trying to seduce me!  And don't you __dare deny it!"  She glared at him ferociously, daring him to back down.  There was no way he could ever outdo Howl and his green slime, so Sophie wasn't too worried.  She and the Masterman had had eyeball-to-eyeball contests before, and she had always won, though not without some struggle.  _

            She won.

            "Okay," the Masterman said in a meek and little voice, throwing his hands up in defense while taking a few steps backward.  "So I _was_ trying to seduce you, but only a_ little_," he said, emphasizing the last word.

            Sophie had harrumphed in disgust and marched away, determined to never see that heart-shaped face again for as long as she lived.  But of course, mere minutes later, he was trailing by her side as they tromped through the forest, humble and somewhat apologetic.  

So, having to put up with days of such harassment, it was a relief to acknowledge that her embarrassment and acute discomfort had died away to be replaced by a more tolerant annoyance, if only a little bit more lenient.  

His mercurial moods had to do with the state of his hair, Sophie thought, still glaring at him.  The days when he'd stumble out of their makeshift bed with his eyes bleary and his black hair standing on end were the days when he complained until he ran out of words.  And then, he would glare and snap and glower and moan and bewail until finally, Sophie would have to tell him to be quiet or else she would turn him into a toad.  She didn't really know how to transfigure humans, but the threat seemed to do its job.  The Masterman was quick to clam up, but he'd resort to declaring his mood by dragging his feet heavily across the ground with a sullen and sunken expression on his face.  

And then the days when he'd roll out of bed with song in his throat and a flirtatious remark on his tongue, where his black hair was smooth and complacent, he was agreeable.  He marched pompously across the green and brown speckled forest floor, daintily enough not to damage his silk slippers (even though they were already worn and dusty from travel.)  Although not having him glowering all day was a nice change, Sophie did not find the flirtatious Masterman that much more agreeable, for he subjected her to his ultimate vainness and complained over everything and then of nothing.

She wasn't sure which she'd rather have, but what she had long decided was that he was a nuisance.  A plain nuisance.  True, he was a comfort to the days when she thought trekking through the Witch's lands were useless and hopeless, but overall he was a nuisance.  A nuisance who parroted her words, but was completely exasperating and yet completely lovable despite his obvious faults.  

"I know that," Sophie repeated, less waspish this time.  "But when the seasons change, all the world is either green or gold, not green on yonder trees and gold here.  How can summer and autumn exist at the same time?"  But as she said her last words, she _knew_.  Of course, in the real world, in Market Chipping, leaves were green and then browned as summer merged into autumn, but in the Witch's world, summer and autumn existed as one entity.  Which meant that winter was only a little further down the road.

Sophie squinted, shielding her eyes against the sun's slowly waning, but still potent, glare.  Everything was golden, from the leaves, to the dust, to the sun, and sky.  It was actually quite gorgeous.

The Masterman, on the other hand, didn't feel up to appreciating anything.  He hemmed and hawed and finally said, "Are we going to wait here all day?  Or are we lost again?"

"We were never lost," Sophie said firmly.  She thought about the dreams she'd had when still in the Moving Castle.  And then she sort of drifted off into a dreaming state, while standing up.

Dreams of a Waste that was not wholly different from the Witch's Wasteland.  It had once been a kingdom.  Snow falling – Sophie had never seen white snow – small snowflakes dropped on her tongue, sweet.  And it melted on her tongue tip – the acidic taste, fire, her tongue was on fire . . .  A golden explosion.  And suddenly she was in a palace.  The type of palaces you only find in stories of enchantment.  Golden balustrades and climbing roses and . . . Sophie stopped looking around.  The hypnotic crooning was getting louder_.  Come to me, my love.  Come to me_.  Intrigued, Sophie followed the sound.  A winter throne, ice, snow swirling.  A pale, shivering man, kneeling on the frosted floor.  Snowflakes in his blonde hair.  _Come to me, my love.  Come to me.  It was more than just crooning.  It was a command.  Sophie watched as the blonde man struggled against getting up, but there was magic in his feet that propelled him stiffly forward.  And then Sophie saw her.  Seated upon a clawed ice throne, holding a scepter of ice.  She was quietly crooning to the man, and as she did so, her fingers deftly wound in a silver ball of string.  The man, bound by the silver thread, came closer and closer.  Sophie watched, frozen in horror, as the Witch reeled Howl in like a fish, unwilling to be caught, but caught nonetheless.  _

"Sophie, Sophie!" a distant voice called, obviously perturbed.  "Sophie, are you alright?"

Sophie felt the burning that had tingled her tongue on her eyelids, felt it spread throughout her head.  She was on fire.  A cold iron claw clamped around her heart and squeezed painfully.  _Hello, Miss Hatter, someone cackled.  _Hello, Miss Hatter_, came the echo.  __Fancy seeing you again.  Fancy seeing you again.  Fancy . . . ._

A touch, like the coolness of metal, stopped the burning, stopped the cackling.  It came in the shape of a smooth, white hand that hooked under her chin and tilted her face up.  She opened her heavy eyelids to look into the blurry but anxious face of the Masterman.  

"Are you alright?" he asked, perturbed, his earlier mood forgotten.    

Sophie wanted to brush him off, and off-handedly say she was fine.  But when she opened her mouth, a faint "No" came out.  And it was true.  She was not alright, though she couldn't quite explain what was wrong with her.  She did question how she could slide into dreams in the late afternoon and how her heart could ache, as if something had indeed physically squeezed it.  

She wondered at her sudden tiredness.  And that was true too.  She was tired, limp, and slowly winding down, like a broken clock.  A rush of thoughts came, foreign and awkward.  But she couldn't help from thinking them.  Thinking that she had gotten to the point in her quest where she would sometimes wish she could stop and plop on the forest floor.  And rest.  And sleep.  And wake up back in Market Chipping.  Wake up in the house next to the old hatter's shop, wake up to a dreary but simple life of sewing and eventually marry a nice village boy and have simple-minded children who would one day grow up to inherit the hat business.  Dreary, yes, but simple.  No Witch, no beanstalks, no Giants.  She'd finally have peace.  She turned the word over on her tongue and savored its relaxing essence.  Peace.  

Sophie jerked away from the calming notion.  She wondered at what had come over her.  She had never regretted, never wondered what her life would have been like if she had not upset the Witch that day in the hat shop.  Why would she begin to doubt now, now that she was halfway into the game?

It disturbed her to hear herself use the same terminology as the Witch: a game.  

But in truth, it was a game.  Here, she was pretending to play hero, and she had held up with the image.  After all, she had climbed up a beanstalk, battled a Giant, rescued a Masterman, walked out of the Castle into a garden, accidentally killed Prince Justin, chosen a path, and was now wandering to no end, weaving through golden trees and dirt, and . . . . what next?  Where was she going?  Where was the Witch?  Where was Howl?  Who was the Masterman, really?  Where were her sisters, Fanny, Michael, Calcifer?  Mrs. Fairfax, Princess Valeria, the King, the palace staff?  The Moving Castle?

At last, Sophie realized what was really wrong with her.  She was scared.  Plain and silly scared.  She was a hero now, questing through the woods, her trusty companion by her side, but only because she hadn't had to face much danger yet.  Yes, there had been the Giant (and what a formidable foe he was!) and then there had been the sirenic mermaids, who had been more of a threat to the Masterman.  But surely, even more lay ahead.  Even more now that they were in Autumn and were nearing Winter, the heart and crown jewel of the Witch's kingdom.  And she was afraid . . . afraid to fail.  

Her heart had strummed the discordant chords of failure for longer than she could remember.  _Eldest of three, she had heard whispered in Market Chipping whenever her back was turned, _pity, she'll be a failure_.  The salt tears that used to stream down her cheeks told of failure.  The bile in her throat tasted of failure.  The fire on her eyelids was failure.  Failure.  Failure.  First and forever.     _

The Masterman apparently hadn't heard her faint "No," for he asked again, "Are you alright?"

            "I'm fine," Sophie croaked, and cleared her throat.  With a few whispered words, she repaired herself, as if she really were a broken clock.  "I'm fine," she said in a normal voice.        

He shot her a skeptical look and raised his eyebrows.  

" . . . We should keep walking.  I want to be further into Autumn before the sun goes down."

"Sophie," the Masterman asked, in a tinny voice, "do we know where we're going?"

"To Winter.  Into Winter."  She thought of swirling snowflakes and snowstorms, of winter thrones and ice and snow flurries, of ice scepters and ice cold eyes, of shivering and of a strange crooning that beckoned: _Come to me.  Come.  _

We're coming, Sophie thought.  We may be playing straight into your hands, but we're coming all the same.

"What's in Winter?" he asked, stumbling over a rock.  He hurried to catch up with her long strides.

"The Witch," she said softly, not directing the words at the Masterman.  The Witch of Winter, she thought, no longer of the Waste.  

The Masterman laughed nervously.  "Sophie," he said, "I know that you have mentioned her name once or twice, but – what witch?"    

Just look at us, Sophie thought.  A pair of heroes we make!

"You don't mean a real witch, do you?  Warts, green skin, large, pointy, black hat?  Long whiskers?"

One, a nuisance who has no recollection of who he really is.  The other, a complete and utter failure, Sophie thought ruefully.  We're sure to give the Witch something to reckon with.

"A broomstick?" jabbered the Masterman nervously.  "You don't suppose she'll have a real broomstick?"   

 And she wasn't even certain that she could trust the Masterman.  She would never, could never forget that he was still one of the Witch's creatures, and therefore still under her power. 

" . . . a cauldron, too?  You don't suppose she eats –" here his voice squeaked – "people, do you?" 

Sophie finally tuned in and rolled her eyes.  Heroes, she mused.  The stuff that legends are made of.  That was fine with her.  She was reinvigorated when her magic stitched up the broken pieces inside.  Born anew.  She was ice and nothing could ever melt her.  Not a failure.  Not ever again.  

Together, Sophie and the Masterman, one contemplating deeply and the other gibbering nervously, headed down the golden path, lit by the golden sun, highlighted by the golden sky.  But still the golden footprints left in the ground told of failure.  And the silence of the goldenwoods sang of failure.  Failure.  Failure.  First and forever.       

***

Second Author's Note: Ahh.  I know this is short.  I'm sorry!  And I know it's not the chapter I promised – which is the good, fluffy chapter – but I hope that's the one coming next . . . .  I've written that chapter – well, most of it.  It was actually going to be in this chapter, but I decided to break it into two chapters, because I'd rather have this chapter end the way it did, and not keep on going.  

            Did you like it?  It may be short, but if you liked this chapter - (I actually liked it – considering how much trouble I was having with writing the 12th chapter, I thought this turned out rather well) – please REVIEW!!!!

            = )

Calcifersgrl


	13. Interlude: Author's Apologies and a Chal...

Interlude: Author's Apologies and a Challenge

Just thought I'd better clarify, this isn't a chapter.  But rather, it's a little note as to why I'm taking so long with chapter 12, and it's also to issue a challenge to you, HMC fic readers.  

Firstly, I have finally been making progress with Chapter 12 (the really difficult fluff chapter that could totally suck if I screw it up.)  About 7 pages now, and I'm ¾ the way done, I think – but you know how these chapters go – tricky little things, and most of the time, they turn out differently than you plan them to!  Anyway, I apologize for the wait (only a matter of days, or weeks or . . . ) but I had finals to juggle and all sorts of nice and smiley tests to go with it . . . but it's summer now, and I should have more time.  Except for the fact that my mother is sending me through summer school!  Which should have anywhere between 4 to 8+ hours of homework!  Talk about crazy!

And now for the HMC CHALLENGE! (Many thanks to Caudex who helped me brainstorm some ideas! – I've never issued a challenge before, but I thought it'd be a great idea.  This is for all of you HMC readers who feel like their writing juices are a bit dry or stale or completely nonexistent.  So maybe this will spark some idea in your head (which would be lovely because there needs to be more HMC fanfics!!!  Honestly, Fanfiction.net is the _only_ place where there are HMC fics – and even then, we're under the section 'Dalemark Quartet'!)

The RULES:

1. Sophie cannot wind up running away or leaving the Moving Castle to get away from Howl - and this must be Sophie/Howl really. And must be a little fluff in it!

2. Must be beta-read

WHAT YOU MUST INCLUDE:

1. a goat must appear in the story  
  
2. Sophie must accidentally (or purposely, if you wish!) hit Howl with a frying pan.  
  
3. you must feature some Shakespeare (ex: a sonnet, lines from a play, Romeo and Juliet, etc . . .  anything you want!)  
  
4. Someone should discover a unique talent - like touching her thumb to her wrist, or something. LOL - find something better than that. Should be funny!!!

  
5. something must happen to an article of Howl's clothing

But other than that, everything is left up to you.  Good Luck! [Hint Hint: I think I'm in dire need of a laugh, so I'm crossing my fingers for some amusement and "Awws" for the fluff part!] 


	14. In which a Frog is kissed and Sophie arg...

There and Back Again

By Calcifersgrl

I suppose this chapter is dedicated to Caudex: thanks for everything (since everything really does mean everything – it's impossible to express in a few words how much that is . . . .)

Thanks to all of my reviewers who write such nice and good and funny things!!!  YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST!!!  (The reason that I still write this story is because of you guys – otherwise, I would have stopped writing at Chapter 2 long, long, looooong time ago!)

***

Chapter 13: In which a Frog is kissed and Sophie argues

            The sun went down behind the forest tops, winking golden rays before it disappeared, and in one drawn-out whoosh, the world was left unlit.  After wandering some miles further into Autumn, Sophie and the Masterman stopped to set up camp inside another enclosed circle of trees.  It was always best to be cautious, Sophie decided, as she muttered to the trees to "do their duty."  They obeyed, rustling their russet leaves in consent.  Under the light of the waning moon, the Masterman rummaged about the bases of the thick trees for wayward branches and twigs, with which he could light a fire, and then proceeded to tie the flaps of his longish sleeves behind his neck as he carefully knelt down to make the fire.  The milk-white moonlight cast a pallid beacon on his face, and for a second, Sophie could have sworn his eyes were green.  But in the next second, the notion vanished, and his eyes were as they always were – blue as the rolling seas of Porthaven – and she began to make the bed.  

After he had gotten the fire going, Sophie cooked the eggs she'd found from an abandoned bird's nest before they'd crossed over into Autumn over a rock slab, and then they ate in companionable silence.  It was in silence that they watched the stars appear in the night sky.  It was in silence that Sophie thought about how grand and faraway they were.  As grand and as faraway as where ever she and the Masterman were destined to go.  Playing a part, telling a tale.  Writing a story.  As heroes.  

She shifted as the Masterman dragged a log over and plopped it next to hers.  He accidentally bumped her elbow in the process, but she overlooked his clumsiness.  With all the silence enveloping her, it was nice to be reminded that she was not alone in the universe, alone under the glittering expanse of stars.  

"Can you name the stars?" the Masterman asked after he'd situated himself on the log, his mouth still half-full.  He didn't look at her.  His face glowed, obviously mesmerized by the flashing night figures.

"Some of them," Sophie responded, thinking of scholarly and serious Mr. Hatter.  She, being more level-headed and studious than both Martha and Lettie, had been subjected most often to Mr. Hatter's attention – and long had suspected herself to be his favorite.  As a child, he'd taken her up to the roof of their house, overlooking the expanse of Market Chipping.  Sophie's mouth curved up at the memory.  The view provided by the roof was glorious indeed – with the tiny, orderly plots of Market Chipping seeming to be no more than mere playtoys.  And the quiet – up there, pressed against her father's chest for security and warmth and listening to the steady beating of his heart, she had been seduced by the night and the silence.  It was up there that Mr. Hatter had first pointed out the ladle, a bright confection of seven stars that was easily seen.  And there that Sophie had first known to recognize the giant's belt, made up of three blazing stars.  The-Giant-who-had-no-name-but-swung-mightily-with-his-sledgehammer.  He was easiest to see in late summer/early autumn.  Mr. Hatter had made up some silly story to accompany the Giant, one that ended with the Giant, whose power was great, flinging himself up into the stars with his sledgehammer raised, ready to destroy the sky.  Which didn't happen of course.  The sky was like a sticky web, and there the Giant stayed, mouth open in outrage, nameless, and a sledgehammer raised high above his head.  

Sophie smiled from the memories – she didn't think of her quiet father often, but when she did, a dull ache began to throb in her chest.  It was, after all, only two years since he had passed from her life to the next.  

To elaborate on her answer, Sophie explained to the Masterman about her nocturnal visits to the roof with her father.  And hearing herself tell of her father aloud and to a stranger – the Masterman was still a stranger, no matter how friendly and close they became – made Sophie feel strangely hollow – as if there was nothing more to her than skin and bones.  

            "I think I'll go to sleep now," she murmured and got up abruptly from her log.  The Masterman looked up at her in surprise, fine creases in his brow, and a look of compassion crossed his face.  But his face was blocked by the shadows cast by the firelight, and Sophie didn't see his expression.  "I'm . . . tired," she said, although it was not true.  

            "Alright," he said, amiably enough, and brushed off dirt and twigs from his fraying robes.  "Will you have the right or the left side?" he asked, gesturing with one hand at the makeshift bed.  Then his mouth quirked in a mischievous grin: "Or should I just sprawl myself across the whole thing and save you the trouble of rolling off in the middle of the night?"     

            She cracked a smile, temporarily dispersing her somber thoughts, and gave him a good-hearted shove.  He tripped over the longish hem of his robe as he stumbled backwards and fell, giving a loud squawk of consternation.  "Sophie!" he complained, sitting in the dirt.  

            "Good night," she replied and plopped on the right side of the bed.

            But it was not good night, for she lay awake, long after the Masterman began to snore irregularly. 

He must be getting a cold, Sophie thought somewhat irritably – as she listened to the normally- quiet-but-now-sometimes-loud-and-soft breathing of the Masterman.

But even the Masterman's raucous sounds could not drown out the summons from the stars.  They called to her, inviting, and yet at the same time, distant and cold in the night.  Such was their effect, she mused.  The beauty, the aloofness, the coldness – it was all rather hypnotic.  It was no wonder that Howl had been so captivated by that falling star years ago on the Porthaven marshes.  But perhaps, a star's brilliance dimmed when seen up close, for Howl's falling star turned out to be Calcifer.  And though Calcifer was endearing in his own way, he did not possess the same untouchable qualities that he had once owned as a star, Sophie thought, thinking of the sarcastic and often sardonic fire demon.  

Eventually, with these thoughts, Sophie was lulled into sleep.  Sleep was inevitable, as were the dreams that accompanied the sleep.  

She fell through these dreams, as if dropping into scenes – the dreams incomprehensible and surreal.  Only one thing was constant – the falling of snowflakes.  Sophie trampled over lush white snow, as the barking of the pursuing dogs, and the wild blare of trumpets sounding in her flight grew to a crescendo.  She loped on, never looking back, afraid that stopping meant getting captured.  She caught a glimpse of Lettie's porcelain face reflected in a drifting snowflake, and Martha wearing red in another.  She ran – she was forever running.  Ben Sullivan's craggy face split in a grin for one instant, and in the next, his eyes were yellow slits and the grin was feral, vicious, and full of cruelty.  He snarled and lunged.  And suddenly Sophie was falling again.  Falling into a bed of roses, bristling with thorns.  They bit at her bare arms, and she didn't dare flail, afraid to make the bleeding worse.  She only had time to wonder at the absurdity of roses in the dead of winter, before she was running again.  Darting through a new landscape littered with snow, weaving her way in and out of snow-covered trees.  _"Sospan fach yn berwi ar y tân, Sospan fawr yn berwi ar y llawr,A'r __gath__ wedi scrapo Joni bach," hummed a curiously familiar voice, cackling with the spittle and whine of burning wood.  She ran, feeling the hairs on the back of her head bristle from the cold . . . and from the feeling of being followed.  She fled from a figure that glided smoothly from tree to tree, dressed in rich, pink silk.  A figure who smiled generously with her mouth and not with her eyes.  Sophie ran.  Ran from the beguiling crooning that emerged from the figure's puckered lips like a kiss.  The falling snow stung her eyes and froze the hair of her arms.  "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference," came the soft murmur from a voice she thought she knew.  She was panting, but she could not stop and would not stop.  She only slowed when she reached a clearing, and this she entered cautiously, hand braced on the snow-encrusted bark for support.  A solitary figure stood in the center of the glade, head bowed.  She could see the tiny ice drops adorning his blond hair, an odd mixture of white and yellow.  He was nearly camouflaged, wearing white as he was.  And he refused to acknowledge her entrance.  She stepped forward, tentatively, and opened her mouth, his name on her tongue.  "Howl . . . ."_

His head stayed bow.  Her heart drummed in her throat, and she croaked his name once more, louder.

His head jerked upward, obviously pained.  And it startled her to see the hollowness of his face, the color all drained.  And most of all, his eyes were blank, as if he could no longer see, the pupils shrunken to mere dots.

"Howl . . ." she said, starting forward, alarmed at his state.

"What more do you want of me, Witch?"  It was simply said, quiet and resigned, but Sophie recoiled, stung.  Witch.  The word had rolled out of his mouth, dripping with acid and unadulterated hatred.  Witch.  She wasn't Sophie, but a Witch, complete with capital letters, as if she was in the same league as the Witch of the Waste.  

"I'm not," she said.  He didn't answer, and continued to stare impassively through her.  "I'm really not," she said with a hint of desperateness to her voice.  He simply gazed through her, with those blank, unseeing eyes, with his hands clenched by his sides, white-knuckled.  "I'm not a Witch," she proclaimed loudly, feeling rather put-out.  "Well, maybe a witch, if you mean someone who works magic, but not a Witch.  Not . . . not like the Witch of the Waste."

Howl brought his clenched fists in front of him, and slowly unclenched them, and turned them over to reveal his whitened palms.  And that was when she noticed the fine silver and gold chains that hung about his slender wrists.  So fine were they that she almost did not see them.

"La Belle Dame Sans Merci has me in thrall," he whispered, almost to himself.  "You hold the other end, Witch."

Her eyes followed the length of the chain, only to be surprised where her eyes ended.  In her own fists.  Entwined with her own pinkish fingers.

"No," Sophie said, shaking her head, and dropped the chains.  "No."

She stumbled off, running blinding.  Anything to escape the unseeing chained figure in the clearing.

You're running again, chuckled a deep, melodious voice in her head.  You'll always run.

"No," Sophie said, running.  "No, no, no."  But she seemed to have no power over her legs, and they carried her through the flurry.  And because she didn't want to run and her legs did, she tripped and collapsed in the cool snow.   "No, no, no," she repeated over and over again.  Her face was wet, but whether it was from the melting snow or from the tears that had suddenly stained her face, she did not know.

"Sophie!"  Someone was shouting in her ear and was shaking her roughly by the shoulders.  

"No!" she snarled, having summoned the strength to accompany her "no," and woke up to face the frightened eyes of the Masterman bending over her.  

His eyes were green, Sophie thought hazily.  It was no trick of the fire.  They were green.  And then her mind cleared and she apologized weakly, "Oh, sorry.  I didn't mean to shout like that.  Sorry."

"Are you alright?" he asked, unperturbed.  He still had her by the shoulders, and made no move to release her.  

She nodded mutely, amazed at the sudden clearness that had erased the inanity from his eyes.

"You were shouting," he murmured.  "And flailing.  You have quite an arm," he added, and rubbed his right cheek remorsefully.

Sophie winced, and tilted her head remorsefully: "Sorry."    

"You were yelling 'no,'" he continued.  "'No, no, no,' again and again."  He bit his lip, suddenly unsure of himself, "If you – if you ever need a sympathetic ear or just someone to share your troubles with, I'll be happy to be your man."

Sophie paused.  The terror that had propelled her throughout the dream was still fresh in her mind.  It would probably help a great deal to analyze her dream, or just share her burden with another, but she felt that telling him would be rather like baring her soul.  And she'd rather not dwell on the blank, unseeing Howl.  And the chains on his wrists.  

"Masterman," she said irrelevantly, "would you consider me a Witch?"

"Of course," he replied.

Of course, she mimicked him in her mind.  He _would_ think that, having seen her weave her magic among the trees and repair herself.  She could only blame herself for asking the question.

"Masterman," she asked, a question poised on her tongue, "who is 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci'?"

Instantly, a guarded look darkened his eyes, and he spoke next, with carefully chosen words.  "Latin, maybe.  Could be French, actually."

Sophie shrugged, ruefully.  "I wouldn't know."

He eyed her carefully, his grip finally loosening from her shoulders.  "Anyway, what would she want with you?"

"She?  I thought you didn't know what – who La Belle Dame Sans Merci is."  
            

"I – I don't."  He shook his head irritably, "But it doesn't take a genius to figure out that La Belle Dame Sans Merci can only be a female.  A she."

Sophie chose not to respond, feeling one of his mercurial mood swings coming on.

"I'm sorry," he said, and paused.  "I – I'm just not my best this early in the morning."  He gave a loud yawn, and gave her a glassy look.  "I've been having sleeping troubles of my own, and I trust we have a long day ahead of us, and I think you'd better get back to sleep."

His tone was formal with frosty undercurrents.  

Sophie bit her lip – she'd never ever understand him.

He tottered back to bed, and was snoring in an exaggerated manner within minutes.

Sophie sighed, and looked at the closed eyelids – remembering them to have been green – and went back to sleep.

She woke next in the creeping moment between dawn and daylight – where the sky was a murky grayish-blue – and she was freezing.  Sophie clutched the crinkled material of her blue dress with her hands, and shivered.  The Masterman had kicked her off the bed.  Again.  Feeling impossibly cold and more than a little outraged, she turned around, prepared to give the Masterman a piece of her mind.

But he wasn't there.  She looked through the dark depths of the trees for something moving, but nothing was disturbed.  His side of the bed didn't even look slept in; she felt the makeshift mattress to be sure.  It was as cold as stone. 

Where had he gone?    

He had simply . . . vanished?

Sophie shook her head.  That was impossible.  She had woven the spell around the trees to let no intruders in, and that also included letting nothing and no one out.

After dismantling the spell, Sophie wobbled out of the clearing.  The forest between dawn and daylight was grey all over, and certainly unrecognizable as the golden glory of Autumn.  The forest wound in loops and curves, which explained her constant stumbling.  She was _not_ a morning person.  Sophie rubbed her eyes to erase the haziness, but blinking didn't help.  The tall trees were still blurred, and suddenly, she had no idea why she had even left the campsite.  

He'll come back, she assured herself.  The Masterman wouldn't just . . . leave like that.  There was an explanation for his disappearance; there had to be an explanation.

Heartened by her thoughts, she determined to turn back, but not before, her right foot skidded on some loose and mushy dirt, straight into a puddle.  She yelped as the cold drops of water seeped into her stocking.  Feeling more than a little miserable, and cold, and wet, she prepared to aim a misery-lanced glare at the puddle. 

And found that it was much more than a puddle.  It was a good-sized pond resting in the middle of a clearing, edged with mushy mud and several clumps of grass and weeds, some of which were up to Sophie's knee.  She could see the hazy reflection of tree branches, along with the small green flecks of algae drifting aimlessly across the murky surface.  A patch of lily pads floated solitarily in the middle of the pond.    

Sophie frowned, looking at the mud splotch on her shoe, and blew some air through her lips.  She hated mud, and she hated being dirty.  And she hated being awake and up this early in the morning . . . .

A loud belch, like the blaring of a foghorn, erupted, startling Sophie out of her moodiness.

And then she screamed.     

A greasy-green bullfrog with bulging eyes the color of sullied green-gold had propelled its slimy, wet body off one of the lily pads, and had plopped itself onto her dirtied shoe.  And it appeared to be trying to climb up her leg.

"Get off me!  Get off me now!" she shrieked, flapping her arms in a ridiculous manner, not caring that she was making a lot of fuss over a little bullfrog.

She kicked out her leg, determined to shake it off once and for all.  But she didn't have the self-satisfaction of doing so, for the frog gracefully pirouetted off of its own accord, and then proceeded to goggle at her with its large, bulging eyes, its white throat throbbing in the way that all frog throats do.

Sophie stared at those green dome eyes, feeling a little silly.  It tilted its little green head rather solemnly, as if regarding her from those protruding eyes of his.  "Kiss me," it croaked in what it considered to be a husky, seductive tone.

"What?"  Sophie stared at the frog in consternation, who goggled back innocently.  "This is what comes of waking up so early in the morning," she mumbled to herself.  "I start hearing things."

"Kiss me," said the frog with a large smirk plastered on its green face.

Now, there was no mistaking the fact that the voice had indeed come from the frog.

Sophie's mouth parted in a mix between surprise, wonder, and horror.  

"Kiss me.  Kiss me.  Kiss me," bellowed the frog, working itself into a short frenzy, its white throat pulsing with each command.  It leaned on its short forelegs and seemed to pucker up its green lips.

Sophie managed to collect herself.  "No, thank you," she said, shaking her head firmly in the way that Fanny had taught Lettie, Martha, and her to decline rude invitations.  

The frog considered her for a moment, tilting its oddly shaped head to one side as if to say: _Okay, how about this?_

"Kiss me," he bawled, "and I'll turn into a prince."  He perched himself upright with all the dignity a frog could muster and glared at her with those frowning, sullied eyes, as if to dare her to turn him down.

"Prince of what?" Sophie snorted, dropping her initial mask of politeness.  Really, the things a male would say to get noticed.  "I really don't need a prince right now.  Besides, those lips of yours are likely to give someone a case of incurable warts.  And that slime of yours would send the Masterman running for cover.  No, thank you!"

She began to walk away, her strides getting longer and faster as it became apparent that the frog was not going to leave her alone without a fight.  It hopped on its little green legs, keeping rhythm with her pounding shoes.  

Sophie felt a small dash of sympathy for the poor thing.  Even now, it kept up with her, its little green brow – if frogs can have brows – clenched in concentration.  And was that a bead of sweat she saw trickling down its broad forehead?  She stopped walking.  

It sat on its haunches, panting.  "K-i-s-s me," it wheezed in a croaky voice that sounded as if it had swallowed a mouthful of dust.  No longer haughty and dignified, the frog had somehow shrunken into a pitiful state.  The once apple-green shine of its frog skin dimmed, and made him look rather plain.  "K-i-s-s me . . . please," it finished off.  

It was the little 'please' that got her.  It wormed itself into her heart, and she just couldn't – no matter how stony or frigid she wanted to be – force herself to turn her cheek to its plea.

"Oh, alright, alright!" she grumbled.  Sophie gingerly bent to pick up the frog by its slimy, leathery back, and let it settle into her cupped hands.  She looked at it in unconcealed distaste.  Up close, it was even wartier and misshapen than she had previously thought.  

Well, here goes, she thought, eyeing the now-smirking frog in her hands.  She wondered whether she had spoken too soon when she'd said he'd give a person warts.  But it was too late to back down – a promise is a promise, as Mr. Hatter had always admonished her – and she wasn't about to break her word.  

She licked her lips nervously, her eyes flickering from the murky pond and back to the warty green face of the frog.  It grinned at her rather cheekily, and puckered up its lips.

Sophie rolled her eyes and prepared to give it a dry, wooden peck on its bumpy cheek, when suddenly the frog sprang out her hands and straight for her face.

The frog launched itself full force at Sophie before she could even blink an eye.  It wrapped its long slimy arms around her neck, its great webbed feet placed against her chest for stability, and planted a loud and slimy kiss on her lips.  

She didn't even have time to wince.  Everything happened so fast afterward that she was dimly aware in the corner of her mind that the slippery arms had evolved into warm human arms, and that a decidedly solid body was pressed against hers, holding her in a decidedly nice kiss.  The kiss infused her entire being and tingled every hair, sending an electric shock up her spine. The most peculiar feeling arose, and Sophie felt light-headed, giddy.  It was a strange kind of giddiness, for while her head felt like it would float up to the clouds, she was also inert, incapable of movement.  

Confound it! Sophie managed to think, as rationale began to surface once more in her mind.  I'm being taken advantage of by a stranger!  And one that used to be a frog too!

And yet, bewitched as she thought she was, she couldn't deny the feeling those arms gave her.  She was nowhere and yet somewhere.  She was safe and at the same time . . . not.  The arms promised security at the price of some danger.  And yet she would not have it otherwise.  

 . . . Howl . . . .

His face had a peculiar habit of sliding through her mind when she least expected it, and with a shudder as she recalled him, she suddenly remembered herself.  And what she was engaged in doing at the moment.

With a gasp, Sophie wrenched herself away from the comforting circle of arms, without looking at the stranger.  "You – you seducer!  You fiend!" she managed to sputter, while making a great show of wiping off all remnants of the kiss from her lips, and wildly waving her other hand in accusation.  "How dare you kiss me like that!  I'll have you k-know, I'm already spoken for . . .  and," she tried to recall some of the finer points of chivalry she had read about while in school, "don't you dare think you'll get away from this.  He'll challenge you to a duel for – for," she stuttered, wondering whether she should even add some archaic words for authenticity, "the sake of 'mine' honor.  You ought to feel ashamed of yourself!  A seducer and a lech--- "  She stopped mid-sentence, as she finally glanced at the stranger's feet and something caught her eye.  Even before he spoke and she recognized the amusement and quirks of his voice, even before the familiarity of his voice made her heart beat like that of a cornered rabbit, she saw somewhat ragged bunny slippers peeking out of a long, flannel nightrobe – edged in blues and greens that could not possibly have come from Ingary.  

Her eyes traveled up the stranger to assess the slightly open robe and the thin white shirt at which she had blushed so long ago.  And finally, they rested on his angular face framed by disheveled blonde hair, which now displayed a disarming half-smile and a quirk in his eyebrows.  He _was trying to look ashamed of himself, but to her eye, he was definitely not succeeding, for the downturn of his mouth kept snaking upward. A lock of questionable color fell to one side as he cocked his head, obviously perplexed by her frozen state and lack of greeting.  She met his eyes – once glass-green, but now a deeper and richer hue – and her mouth parted in surprise and belated recognition.  _

Sophie blinked.  Was this some ill-humored joke of the Witch's?  Or was it really him?  The Witch had told her that she wouldn't recognize him in his new form . . . .  All of her assessing took place in mere milli-seconds, but to her waterlogged brain, time moved slowly, as if it were trying to run through fast-moving water.

"I think," he said, with an amused grin, "that he wouldn't.  He's too much of a slitherer-outter and a coward, on the side, to duel.  Come now, Sophie.  You don't honestly think that I'm going to duel with myse—"

But she didn't even let him finish.  With a half-incredulous, half-crazed look, Sophie hurled herself at him, in very much the same way that the frog had launched itself at her, and flung her arms around his neck in a near-strangling squeeze.  He was startled, but recovered by awkwardly patting her on the back.  And then, surprising even herself by such an impetuous act, she set her mouth squarely on his and kissed him, something she had never done before but fully intended to do again.  His mouth was warm and decidedly solid as he responded to her kiss.  Bliss coursed through her entire body, but the only thought that ran through her mind was that he was not a creature of the Witch's sent to taunt her, not a dream that would melt away when she stretched out fingers to touch him.  He was real.  She could feel his heart beating in time with her own.  _He was real._

She broke the kiss off with a quick swallow of relief, and then looked at him shyly, hardly believing what she had just done.  She had _kissed_ him.  A faint blush colored her cheeks, and she averted her eyes.

            When she finally screwed up enough courage to look up again, Howl was gaping at her.  "Wow," he finally managed to say.  "What a greeting!  I think," he said with a smile, lifting his eyebrows in a knowing way, "that I should be turned into a frog more often."

She blushed again, hating herself for it.  With the emotions of the past few seconds still running high, and her temporary insanity restored, Sophie repressed the urge to smooth his disheveled hair down.  She had to be careful; after all, hearts had been broken in less than two sittings, before.  "You told me," Sophie said in a strained voice, "that you would turn into a prince."

"Did I now?" Howl mused, running one hand through his hair, nonchalantly.  He shrugged and dramatically proclaimed, "My lies will be the death of me."  He sighed in an exaggerated manner, and continued in a lamentable and noble tone: "Just another of my many, many vices, but," here he perked up, "my dishonesty will be my shining salvation.  A sad, sad truth it is.  And sadder still that Wales saw fit to see to it that some men are princes, while some men are frogs . . . ."

You needn't lie all the time, Sophie wanted to say, but his words only made her wonder whether he was lying to her now.  So instead of confusing herself even more, she focused her attention on his reply to her statement.

"I prefer frogs," Sophie said, more firmly than she had meant to be.  "Most princes," – like Prince Justin – she thought, "are really frogs in disguise.  They're courtly and smooth, promising jewels, crowns, happiness, love, and everything else there is to promise.  Frog princes promise words as freely as they snap up flies.  What good are words which have no worth?  They pledge lifelong fidelity and 'happily ever after', yet _everyone_ knows such promises have no lasting value to them.  'Happily ever after' is a bed-time story told to every child, a story of comfort and a way of tying up loose ends and knotting the ending."

The words tumbled out like a landslide, irrepressible and damage done.  She paused slightly to take a deep breath.

His face was peculiar, pinched and serious, the theatrical flair of the minutes before gone.  "You don't believe in 'happily ever after'?" he asked slowly.

            But she bowled through his question and continued her rant.  Once she got heated up over an issue, it took either a miracle or a disaster to stop her.  "Frog princes are pond-scum," she said with feeling.  "At least the men who are frogs don't pretend to be anything other than a frog.  They're honest.  They don't promise the sun and the moon and the stars.  They don't guarantee anymore than snapping up flies and getting fat, and sitting on lily pads and lapping up algae-infested water and a lifetime of tadpoles," she blushed here, and stopped for another breath.

Howl took advantage of the breath to say, "What a decrepit and desolating picture you paint!  I think I'd rather _have the prince.  Promises of the sun and the moon and the stars sound quite appealing after _that_ cynicism."  His eyes crinkled slightly with amusement: "Though," he commented, "a lifetime of little tadpoles doesn't seem like such a chore."_

"You would!" Sophie retorted, going red.

He had the decency to blush, and grinned.

And then his expression changed to one of solemnity.  "But do you really believe all that, Sophie?  Does it have to be one way or the other – princes as frogs or frogs as frogs?  Could some frogs really be princes underneath?"

Sophie furrowed her brows, uncomprehending.  He was a truly dizzying man, on more than one level.  She had trouble following his caprice, his mercurial moods, and understanding his reasoning for the questions.

Howl quickly rephrased, seeing the confusion on her face: "Can't frogs still promise the sun, the moon, and the stars – and even if they can't attain it, isn't the effort counted?  If frogs only promised making milt under the stars and snapping up flies and croaking in the moonlight, you'd never know if they could have amounted to more than that dreariness.  Perhaps, it is wrong to promise what you don't have, but isn't the intent behind the promise worth anything?

            Sophie was silent, for once.  She had more than a sneaking suspicion that the conversation about frogs and princes had evolved into a much larger conversation about something else.  She was afraid to even dwell on the idea of what that something was.

            Howl was uncharacteristically quiet, too.  She imagined him breaking the silence by remarking, "Silly of me to say such rubbish.  Hell's teeth, I must be drunk still."  But when it became apparent that he was going to stay thin-lipped and quiet, she wondered what _she_ could say, and how much longer the stillness would last.  Perhaps, she should introduce a new topic . . . .

            But Howl beat her to it.

            The words came out in a jumble, sudden and rushed.  He asked, "Did you miss me?" except to Sophie's ears, she heard, "Didyoumissme?"  But she read it all the same.  

            Sophie started, and then opened and closed her mouth like a gaping fish.  It was a most perilous thing to reveal one's heart, and at that moment with Howl's green eyes staring intently at her face, almost boring in, and her trying to stifle yet another blush, she wasn't sure she could risk such peril.  Because reading between the lines, she figured out that what he was really asking was, "Do you love me?"  Love . . . what was love?  Howl's other world bards had spoken of it – one had even written countless sonnets about it, in fact, but still, the concept of love was rendered as complicated, if not more so, than ever before.  It was true that love was powerful, having demonstrated its potential by setting 1,000 ships in motion.  But love also didn't conquer all, the way it always did in her books.  She had read enough to know that love was not for eternity.  Love died in many more cases than it stayed alive . . . .  Anyway, Sophie thought frantically, neither she nor he had ever said, "I love you," or even mentioned the word "love" in a serious way.  Those three words bound two people together as one heart, one soul – and she realized she just couldn't risk it.  Not now.  Not yet.  

            So she shrugged . . . which both of them realized wasn't a real answer to the question.  It was the best Sophie could do – because she was very, very, very fond of him, charmed, enchanted by him, and if he were to find another girl, she would indeed flame up with mad jealousy – but she couldn't bring herself to say yes or no.  At least not in his presence.

            It's really not as simple as black and white, Sophie thought, trying to excuse her lack of indecision.  Her conscience screamed in disagreement: either yes, I love you, or no, I don't love you.  Either you feel it, or you don't.     

            But since her conscience had never been the boss of her, Sophie disregarded the inner outburst and waited for him to respond to her shrug.     

            He didn't respond.  He only continued to gaze at her with heated intensity, his lips parted as if to speak, but any words he had to say were instantly swallowed.  Sophie had never known Howl to be mute.  On the contrary, he always had a witty comeback to everything.  He never took anything too serious, always feigning injury and hurt, so it was difficult to know whether she had hurt him with her shrug.

            "Well, I'm glad you're back," she offered, tentatively.  "The Witch had me worried and . . ."

            "But I'm not," Howl said abruptly, interrupting her, relieved to be rid of the awkward moment. He gazed at her, appealing to her with his glowing, flickering eyes.  He reached for her hands.  There was a bit of a struggle where Sophie tried to disentangle her fingers from Howl's.  But since she wasn't seriously adamant about hiding her hands, Howl won the scuffle.  He entwined his fingers with hers and pulled her close.  Standing right next to him, the top of her head barely reaching his chin, Sophie looked up at him questioningly.  

            Howl cracked a melancholy half-smile.

            "But I'm not," he reiterated.  "I'm not back.  Not for good.  Not for real.  Sophie, you're dreaming.  _This is a dream."    _

            What? She wanted to say.  But instead, she gave a small nod, and said in a small voice, "Oh . . . .  Of course."

            Of course, she thought.  Of course he wasn't real.  Of course she hadn't really kissed him.  Of course this was just a dream.  It didn't matter that she'd heard his heart beating, it was just a dream.

            "Is that all you can say?" Howl asked, frowning.  "'Oh.  Of course'?"

            What did you want me to say, Howl?  Did you _want _me to put up a big fuss and screech?  What else _can_ one say when confronted with reality?  And, Sophie thought, perhaps, it was a relief to discover that the Howl who stood before her wasn't flesh-and-blood Howl.  Even though she couldn't tell him she loved him, a kiss was just as tell-tale as words.  Though, she added wistfully, the kiss had been nice.  Awfully nice, she amended.

            "Why is it that I've never dreamed of you before?" she asked.  "It's always been the Witch, and snowflakes and winter, and –"  She stopped abruptly, realizing that she had dreamed of him before, had in fact, just dreamed of him.  But she brushed that thought away – there he'd been hurtful and cold, and not Howl.  Not Howl at all.

            "Sophie, I'm hurt," he drawled, managing to look nobly wounded.  "You bang up a man's ego in the worst way possible."    

            She rolled her eyes.  "Well, if I'd known you would be so offended, I'd have said it sooner.  Go ahead, just bring on the green slime," she retorted.  "You always do," she quipped, a smile tugging on the corners of her mouth.

            And that was that.  They were friends again, she thought.  No more awkward talk about hearts and love and uncertainty.  No more talk about frogs and princes.  

            "I do not," Howl protested loudly.  "It's a defense mechanism.  I only threaten green slime when_ I feel threatened."_

            "Which is when you throw a tantrum," added Sophie. 

            "Such a juvenile word," he remarked.  "I'd prefer the words 'expressing myself.'"

             She raised an eyebrow and retorted, "If expressing yourself means covering the castle with acidic waste and scaring everyone with your booming sobs!"

            Howl smiled, obviously reflecting on that day.  "Oh, that's right - Horror, Despair, Anguish.  Wonderfully conjured, weren't they?  Just a touch menacing, hmm?"  Sophie didn't have a chance to reply for something caught his eye and his attention was diverted.  He bent over her head with a peculiar expression on his face.  He motioned with one hand and asked in an odd tone, "What is that?"

            Sophie's fingers flew to her hair, and fell about the flower still adorning her ponytail.  She had forgotten it was even there.  "You mean the rose?"  She was suddenly acutely uncomfortable, and tugged at the neckline of her dress.  "I thought – I mean I thought –" I thought Howl would like it, she finished mentally, and then tartly concluded, "It's just a rose, Howl.  That's all.  A simple flower." 

            Howl arched an eyebrow at her defensive tone of voice.  "A simple flower?  My dear Sophie, that is much more than a simple flower, and I can't imagine how you ever stumbled into it.  Where ever did you get it from?"

            She couldn't remember at first.  But as she tried to piece together her memories, it all came back to her, and this she tried to explain to Howl, haltingly – the Giant falling, Prince Justin's body . . . the flower springing up from the site of his vanished body like a peace offering.  And she had plucked it and tucked it away in her hair.  Strange.  She hadn't been able to look away from the blood-red rose . . . it had pricked her, shedding three pearl-shaped drops of blood.  And . . . .

            "I see," said Howl, his face unreadable, but Sophie thought she knew him well enough to know that he was troubled, and downright angry.  The joviality had died away from his eyes and a hardened stern look sprang into them.  "I see," he repeated.  "I don't suppose you were ever taught not to pick up strange objects."

            She didn't reply, just looked at him.

            "No, I suppose not," he continued, scathingly.  "I'll bet that if the stove was hot and there was a sign on it that distinctly warned you _not_ to touch it, you would.  Stick your fingers exactly where they aren't _meant_ to be, that's you.  I don't suppose you ever think, or listen.  Did it ever _occur to you that this mysterious rose that you couldn't seem to take your eyes away from could turn out to be a __trap?  What did I tell you about the Witch's affinity with flowers – I distinctly remember myself telling you that she thinks of herself as a 'solitary rose in the Waste.  Pathetic, really.'!"_

            "A solitary orchid," Sophie interrupted quietly.  "That day, you said she thinks of herself as a 'solitary orchid,' not rose."

            "For heaven's sake, Sophie!" said Howl, throwing his hands up in disgust.  "Rose, orchid, parsnip – what's the difference?  That's besides the point.  You played straight into her hands.  The Witch couldn't have planned it any better – you placed the flower in your own hair of your _own accord_.  That 'simple flower' has some of the strongest magic on it, and if I pull it out, even I don't know what's going to happen.  You could die or something!" he added in an anguished tone.

            So _that_ was it; he was worried.  An absurd little laugh bubbled up her throat.  

            Howl glowered at her, his features darkening.  "That's not funny," he said tersely.

            She sobered up immediately.  "Of course," she agreed.  "That's not very funny."

            "But if I don't pull it out, the consequences could be even worse.  You could die if I don't pull it out," he brooded.  He swiveled back towards her, his green eyes pale with anger, and said, "I wish you hadn't ever even seen it.  You, Mrs. Nose, have got me in the worst fix ever, and I am without even a clue as how to fix it!"  He turned away again, hands clasped behind his blue and green nightrobe, muttering things under his breath.  Sophie caught the words, "like the choice offered  . . . dratted police . . . cut the blue wire or the red wire . . . pull out . . . she dies . . . leave it . . . she dies . . . ."

            Sophie sucked in her lips as the peril of the situation really sank in, and waited with her head hung.  She _had_ made an awful fool of herself, playing the part of the stupid, naïve, unsuspecting heroine to perfection.  She nearly groaned out loud.  She was pathetic.  A failure.

            "I'm a failure," she murmured dully.

            Howl's bowed head jerked upwards, and eyed her crossly: "What did you say?"

            She yanked her chin up and glared at him with some defiance.  "I said that you're right.  Everyone's right.  I _am_ a failure.  Some hero I make.  I can't even play the Witch's game properly."

            The pale anger dissipated, and his eyes softened slightly.  "Sophie . . . cariad . . . I didn't mean, I mean, I didn't . . . ."  He trailed off, at a loss for words.         

            "Well, that's what you implied," Sophie said tight-lipped, smoldering.  She had no right to be angry with him; he was only being worried for _her sake after all, but she was angry, all the same.  She hadn't expected __it from _him_ – the Witch, of course, Market Chipping townspeople, definitely, herself, even, but __not from him.   _

            "Just . . . pull it out," she said abruptly.  "The Witch – she – wouldn't kill me."  As she said this, she realized it was true.  "She won't kill me.  She wants me to make it to the end so we can have that final battle.  I wouldn't put it past her to weaken me, hurt me even, but kill me?  I don't think so."

            Howl wrinkled his forehead.  "You're sure about this?" he asked slowly.

            "Why not?  Otherwise we could just stand here, blathering and arguing nonsense."  She offered him an unsteady smile: "If this is a dream, as you say it is, then nothing could really go wrong . . . ."  She faltered.  It suddenly occurred to her that the feeling of being awake seemed too real to be ignored, and for the first time, she wondered whether she _wasn't in a dream.  "This is a dream, isn't it?" she asked._

            "Pull it out, it is," Howl said decisively, neatly slithering out of the question.

            "Howl!"

            "You know, it'd be easier to pull that nasty twig out of your hair, if you weren't moving your feet!"

            "Howl!"  But Sophie stopped pacing to turn around and face him, exasperated.  "You can't slither out forever!  You know, one day you'll slither out so hard that you'll slither up right behind yourself, and be straightforward for once!"

            Howl clasped his hands behind his back, and stared pensively at the bit of grey sky between the golden groves.  "Horrors, you could possibly be right.  I do think that that day is coming soon for me.  A pity, really.  But I did remark that my dishonesty shall be my shining salvation, didn't I?"

            "More times than I'd care to remember," Sophie replied wryly.

            "Good."  His tone was brisk, as he unclasped his hands, and returned to business.  "Then that's your answer.  Now, let's see to that twig."

            There was no point in trying to retrieve a frank answer from him!  No point at all, she thought.  After all, she was dealing with a master slither-outter.  Left with no other choice, Sophie obliged Howl, albeit grudgingly, by standing somewhat still.

            "Hold still, cariad," he grunted, as he placed both hands on her face and tilted it slightly downward.  

            She fidgeted, tensing, trying to make herself as scarce as possible.  Her eyes were fixated on his arms which were just mere inches away from hers.  Hold still?  Impossible.  His arms kept shifting, closing the distance between him and her . . . and she kept backing away.  She was entirely aware that such proximity to him was akin to being dangerously on the edge of being sucked into a whirlpool.

            "Hold still," he repeated, with a hint of laughing annoyance in his voice.  "You know, as well as I, that I don't bite," he murmured, as if his mouth was full of pins.  "Some bark, I suppose, but no bite.  Do hold still. This shouldn't hurt a bit."

            His fingers curled around the top of the rose stem, and tugged none-too-gently.

            Sophie squeezed her eyes tightly, and gritted her teeth, willing herself to withstand the pain that seemed to consume every nook and cranny of her head.

            "Hell's teeth!" Howl cursed, ripping one hand away from the rose.  Though he had been careful, the thorns nicked him, managing to squeeze three pearl-shaped drops from his finger.  One trickled down his palm, another fell to the ground, and the last dripped on Sophie's shoulder, blotting the blue fabric of her dress in a shape of a three-petaled blood-red rose.  Then to himself, he muttered, "Of all the foolish things to do – I've just hung my own noose.  She's bound to come running for me, now."

            He gave an apologetic smile when Sophie glanced up to look at him.  "The pains I take for you," he drawled.  "Your twig's a tricky one – seems it doesn't want to come out.  I may have to coax it out with some magic."

            "Howl," she said, as she suddenly recalled something she'd been meaning to ask him.

            "Hmm?" he asked absently, concentrating on finding the rose's source of power.  He deftly moved his fingers, careful to avoid the blood-lusting thorns.  

            "What does 'cariad' mean?"

            She glanced at him, in time to see his usually composed face turn an embarrassed shade of pink.  "Oh – er – it's nothing really," he said airily.  "Just some Welsh term I picked up here and there."

            "Don't you speak Welsh fluently?"

            "Of course.  I wouldn't be much of a Welshman if I didn't – oh – it's – er – just a colloquial term – everyone uses it."

            Oh.  Sophie pursed her lips together and closed her eyes once more.  She stifled a yawn, and returned to waiting patiently while Howl murmured above her hair. 

            "Okay," said a voice by her ear.  "Brace yourself.  I should be able to pull out the twig without much trouble."

              She steadied herself by gripping Howl's shoulders, and gave a little nod for him to go ahead.

And then, she wished she hadn't.  Hot spurts of pain shot through her scalp, as if someone had gripped her by her hair and was dangling her by it.  She clenched her fists tightly, as the tears sprang to her eyes involuntarily, and acidic blood swirled into her mouth, having bitten the insides of her mouth.  She gasped audibly, the stinging unbearable.

            "Nearly there," Howl murmured encouragingly, but here his tone took on a peculiar tone, "I'll say that this twig is the most obstinate beastly thing I've ever had to deal with.  Steady, annwyl.  I'm nearly there."          

            She was too occupied with her burning scalp to ask what 'annwyl' meant.

            "There we go," said Howl as he gave one final triumphant yank and the bloody rose came out in his hand.

            Sophie screamed as the world turned upside down.  Or at least, it appeared to.  Vertigo took over, nausea uprooting all the contents in her stomach, and rocking on her feet, she fell forward.  

            He caught her, stumbling with the suddenness of her fall, and laid her gently out on the ground.  "Sophie, what's the matter?" he asked, peering anxiously at her face.

            His face was swimming before her eyes, and his voice sounded so far away.  She felt tired, was tired.  Every ache she had ever known flooded her body, and she felt . . . old.  Ancient, shrunken . . . and defeated.  Her eyes were lead weights, and all she wanted to do was to close them for eternity.

            She heard Howl's sharp intake of breath.  "Sophie!"  He sounded angry – extremely angry as he hadn't even bothered to disguise his anger with impartiality.  "Sophie," he said again, resisting the impulse to grab her by the shoulders and shake her.  "What _have you done to yourself?"_

            "The Witch . . ." she croaked, aware that every movement shot another spurt of pain through her body.

            "Nonsense," Howl dismissed.  His eyes clouded over, and he looked very stern and grave.  "Sophie, what have you done to yourself?  This isn't entirely the Witch's doing.  I very nearly dismantled her spell – which you were right about – she intended to strip you of your magic – and these shouldn't be the after effects . . ." then his tone turned outraged as realization dawned on him: "You did magic!"

            She wanted to disagree, but twisting her head was too much work.  She allowed her head to flop down and flop upright again.  It was true after all.  She had even known that there would be some sort of consequence of repairing herself constantly.  And here was the result.  All the tiredness, the bumps and bruises, the head cold – they were coming back to drain her fully.  

His face was blurring by the second, but she could see disapproval stamped all over his body.  His arms were crossed over his chest, the loose sleeves nearly touching the ground, his eyes had gone so dark a green they were nearly black, and the corners of his mouth tilted downward in a large frown.  And suddenly, Sophie wished for the world that she could keep him from frowning.  But her tongue wasn't behaving properly, and there was a faint roaring in her ears.  Another wave of nausea washed over her.  She hoped she wouldn't throw up all over Howl.

"And that's not the only thing," he continued, disapproval still in his voice, though this time, it wasn't aimed at her.  "I sense the Witch's hand on you in more ways than that.  I suspect she's up to something – though I'd be suspicious if she weren't."

Howl pushed back his large triangular sleeves as he concentrated, no doubt searching for a counter spell.  

Something winked at her through the haziness of her vision.  Sophie struggled to clear her eyes, and focused on the source of the glinting about Howl's wrists.  The blurriness lapsed for a mere moment, but enough for her to confirm her suspicions.  She caught her breath, as the image burned itself into her mind.  Silver chains so fine they were nearly transparent were looped over slender hands.

And a familiar crooning was slowly getting louder in the distance.

She could hear Howl swear in Welsh, and then he bent over her again.  *"Sophie . . . cariad . . . annwyl – if this were any other time . . . I – I haven't much time.  That old toad is coming for me.  I'm so sorry – you stay alright, you hear me?  I –"  He gave up talking with a sigh of frustration, as the eerie crooning crept closer and closer.

The blackness was taking her over.  It had already consumed Howl's form, and she was struggling to hear the words he uttered.  The roaring in her ears threatened to drown all other noise.  Dying, Sophie thought hazily, wasn't so bad.  The process sounded, rather, like the Porthaven waves at high tide, crashing and churning and foaming at the mouth.      

And before the roaring din completely dragged her under, she felt twin brushes across both of her eyelids, and then the lightest touch across her lips, followed by . . . nothing.  He was gone.  Through the cacophony of crooning and roaring, she distinctly heard the tinkle of glass – or ice – cracking.

And then she lost total consciousness.   

*** 

*This is supposed to be read as "Sophie . . . sweetheart . . . darling" – thus, cariad means sweetheart or darling, and annwyl just means darling.  Perhaps, this could be thought of as redundant – but I personally like it.  It's the way some people say to each other, "Honey . . . sugar . . . baby" – even though it all basically means the same thing.                         

***

Wow, I am finally done.  This is the chapter that I have promised nearly four times over, and it kept on getting pushed further back into the story.  And it's my longest chapter yet!  12 PAGES!!!  And it probably will raise the most questions – because, it doesn't make sense!  Yet . . . but everything will be explained by the time I get to the last chapter (which I hope will be 21 – since HMC and CitA were both 21 chapters long too.)

LOL – anyway, I had a lot of fun (and possibly even more trouble with this chapter – fluff is hard to write without sounding too sappy – and it was the fluff that stumped me.  And the fact that I wrote three pages of this chapter way back when in my notebook – and I had to find a way to figure it into the plot . . . ."

Reviews are greatly appreciated!  And of course, they always make my day, and I'm specifically interested which parts interested you . . . so please mention that in the review!

Lastly, Caudex decided to lend proof of the boring life she lead (Heehee), and decided to calculate Howl's exact birth date in accordance to when the book was published: "Allowing for leap years and using the copyright date on the book (1986) as the date of the setting, Howl was born on February 3, 1959."

Now isn't that a cheery thought? (meant in a sarcastic tone)  

Our darling Howl is nearly as old as our parents!  LOL – but of course, Howl will always be Howl – immortal, if you will.

Until the next chapter,

Calcifersgrl 


	15. In which Sophie talks to roses and then ...

There and Back Again

By Calcifersgrl

Author's Note: 

I am so, so, so sorry.  I know it's been more than six months since my last update, but it's a long chapter = D  It's about 10 pages, single-spaced, size 10.  So, hopefully, it makes up for some thing.  Thanks to everyone who e-mailed me – and sorry to make everyone wait so long.  But you know, if you write very nice, long and original REVIEWS… I might just manage to make chapter 15 come out in sooner than 6 months.  = D

Okay, it's been fun writing 'There and Back Again.'  I really do hope that it doesn't take me another 6 months to write Chapter 15, but you know how it goes.  School, tests, essays, a horrible hell of a time… the usual.  It's not much fun, as you all know, and believe me, I'd much rather write a chapter.  

Anyway, enjoy!  I tried – seriously I tried.  I just hope it doesn't suck too much.

Happy New Year!!!

2004 . . . wow

I can't believe it's another year.

But on with the story . . . . 

***

Chapter 14: In which Sophie talks to roses and then some….

                Stifling.  She was swimming in sleep, in dreams, in endless thoughts – swimming without the use of her arms and legs.  Drowning, really.  The grey dimness, it threatened to stifle her, and she couldn't help but wonder if this was death.  This grey abyss where she was floating and not floating.  Free and not free.  Dreaming an endless dream all flecked with grey and still darker shades of grey.

                She had been dreaming for a _very long time.  _

                Was this how it was all going to end?  Death by dreams.  Shadows with lilting voices that lured her in, and when she stretched her arms to touch them, they vanished beneath her fingertips.  She could see them all now – golden and fuzzy with aged memory.  Martha with her slight frame, fair hair, and solemn grey eyes.  Lettie with her long dark hair, whipped around by a rising wind, her cheeks flushed red.  A smiling yet somewhat bookish man, with a thin glasses frame perched on his nose.  Father, she recalled with pleasure.  And there was her own mother, red-gold haired like herself, but whose features remained indistinguishable.  Fanny's rosy image quickly replaced it – a plumpish, smiling woman with fair hair like Martha's.  _Tell me where all past years are_.  The words sprang into her mind, a reminder of Howl's poem/curse.  But she knew the answer now - they were all here, existing in her mind's eye.  They existed, yet she could not interact with them.  Memories flickered through her head like moving pictures, and there she was – ever existing on the sidelines, watching herself live.    

                It was a terrible thing to be forever dreaming - to know only the intangible and never to truly wake up.  

She felt very, very old - painfully old, but not any wiser.  Her demise into dreams had been precipitated by carelessness, naivety, stupidity.  And these qualities haunted her every thought as she watched her memories rewind and play again, over and over in her mind.

Unlucky.

Ill-fortuned.

Failure.

The three words forced a shudder to rock her mental body.  Not her physical self though.  Nothing would ever wake her real self from this death disguised as interminable slumber.  She knew that her physical self was lying in the midst of a dense forest edged in golden hues, a hue that hinted at what was to come – a subsequent forest entirely dressed in gowns of deathly white.  She knew that the floor moss was probably curling up round her ears, already entangled in her red-gold hair.  She imagined that the goldenwood leaves would have already fallen – the world exploding in a flurry of red and gold leaves.  Even now, in her deathless sleep, she could feel the age and burden of her physical body.  Her limbs were as stiff as corn husks dried in the sun.  Her lungs chocked full of dust.  Her eyes leaden weights.  

It was a terrible thing to be forever dreaming – to know only the inevitable and never to wake up and try to change the course of the future.

 How long had she been dreaming?  Nearly 100 years, a ghost of a voice whispered to her.

                And in those 100 years, she had dreamed of roses, roses as red as blood, and of princes, and of witches.  The Witch.  She had not been a conventional Witch, with green skin and warts galore.  But like all Witches, she had had lead in place of a heart.

The Witch visited periodically, darting in and out of Sophie's dreaming state like silver minnows in the cold currents of a stream.  It was her voice that Sophie remembered best - a clear, cold voice that cut through the grey air like the butcher's knife back in Market Chipping.  And like the butcher's knife it cut cleanly and stung the bone.        

The Witch was never more than a shadow, slipping through the darker grey areas of the dream world, only pausing to shoot a smile that never reached her hard, glittering eyes.  On occasion, she exchanged words with Sophie, though none of any piteous or compassionate nature.  While it was just a cruel smirk and a malicious string of words here and there, they nevertheless stung.  Stung as they were meant to.

Sophie knew she should not allow the Witch to affect her the way she did.  She knew this was just a continuation of the game, which the Witch had proposed, placed the stakes, and which she herself had set into motion by leaving the Moving Castle.  Leaving Howl . . . .   And yet, she could not help feeling her breath catch painfully in her throat, her chest hurt as from some internal explosion, at every suggestion, every inclination that the Witch had done something to harm those she held dear.  What was worse was that the Witch appeared to possess some uncanny ability to sidestep the boundaries of time and space and to barge into Sophie's memories.  It was difficult to fully appreciate the celebration of her ninth birthday, where Mr. Hatter, Fanny, Lettie, Martha, and some of the workers from the hat shop gathered around the kitchen table, eating cake and sharing town gossip, with the Witch – in all her fake yet beautiful glory – crouching in the shadows of a doorway, her eyes sparkling with malicious intent and an all too knowing glance in them.  Sophie watched from the sidelines: watching her nine-year-old self – cheeks plump from eating cake from Cesari's, a daisy chain atop her red-gold hair, eyes sparkling with happiness and utter innocence –, while watching the Witch, who watched her memory.

Perhaps, it was worse because Sophie felt exposed, as if her soul had been bared.  Her memories, she thought possessively, were her own.  Not public property.  It wasn't right for the Witch to be able to witness such intimate scenes.  

                Sophie recoiled in horror as her memories played forward, to the death of Mr. Hatter.  And there was the Witch again, skulking in the shadows of her own house – watching satisfactorily as her father was finally laid to rest, and the three sisters and Fanny wept.  

                And then again when Sophie's memories surged forward to those in the Moving Castle.  The Witch's ever-glittering eyes watched as Howl and Michael hastily put together a spell for the King, as Calcifer made sardonic comments from his hearth, as Sophie first put on the seven-league boots.  Once more, the Witch was watching, witnessing her own demise at Howl's hand, her fire demon's destruction, and the promise that Howl had made to Sophie.

                _I think we ought to live happily ever after._

                Sophie swallowed, feeling her throat tighten and the tears begin to burn their way through her eyes, threatening to spill over at the memory.  If only things could have happened that way . . . . 

She was suffocating slowly but surely.  Drowning in this dreaming state where she alone existed in a grey darkness with only her memories for company.  And even her memories were tainted with the feel of the Witch, as was everything else in her life.

It was one way to defeat your opponent, she thought emptily.  To destroy her through nothingness, a grey void.  This deathless sleep.

It wasn't what she wanted for herself – to wile away 100 years just sleeping and dreaming, with only sullied memories as keepsakes – but it was inevitable, she told herself.

The game was lost, and the Witch had won. 

But she only fell back on those thoughts when she despaired of her dreaming state.  

It had occurred to her that if the Witch had truly won the game and taken her prize, she would indubitably have taken the opportunity to flaunt her triumph.  She would of course, revive Sophie from her sleep, and most likely parade her acquired persons like trophies on a chessboard.  Not to mention exhibit the grand prize – Howl.

"Why, hello Ms. Hatter," uttered a disembodied voice from seemingly somewhere and yet nowhere.  The Witch materialized into the dreaming place, stunning as usual.  Sophie looked past the glamour and glanced dispassionately at the newcomer.

"Good morning," she said dully, not caring to make conversation, for it was plain to see that the Witch was in one of her malicious banter moods.   

"Is it morning?" asked the Witch with a smile.  "Or is it afternoon or is it evening?"

Sophie stared at her without emotion.  "How can I know when I have no sense of time here?"

The Witch laughed, the clear sound ringing out, and answered if Sophie had not yet spoken.  "Is it today? Or perhaps is it yesterday or the day after tomorrow?"  She was plainly amused.

Sophie was not.  She twitched an eyebrow and said nothing.

"My, my," the Witch said, "isn't someone a little hard-strung these days.  But I have a proposition for you, my dear Ms. Hatter.  You see, I don't always come to exchange words, though I find that most delightful."

"Another game, is it?"

"Oh no," the Witch said, giving another peal of silver laughter, "that game is still not over yet.  You see, we haven't had our final battle."

"Then why don't you undo this sleep so I can hurry up and do away with you for good?" Sophie muttered tightly, the emotion creeping back into her voice.

"Why," the Witch said in mock-astonishment, "that wouldn't be any fun at all.  That's not playing the game right.  The quicker you finish the game, the better shape your friends will be in.  The more time you spend dawdling in this," she waved her hand to indicate the greyness, "the more Howl will be under my power.  And," she aimed a cunning look that made Sophie freeze for a moment, "the sooner my plans will have fallen into place."

"What do you mean?" Sophie asked distrustfully.

"I have never claimed to play fair, Ms. Hatter," said the Witch with deliberation in her voice.  "Though if you best my power when we come face to face, I will keep my word and let you and the others go, and you can do with me what you like."  She smirked.  "It's a pity you are so self-righteous."

Sophie shook off the last comment like rainwater.  "The proposition?" she asked in a listless tone. 

The Witch smiled.  "More like a little amusement for my own purpose, that is."  She tossed her midnight black hair over one bony shoulder and observed their surroundings.  "Clever you may be, but sometimes I truly wonder.  You haven't even managed to manipulate this horrible hole into something else.  Some witch you are.  I wonder why I would ever fear you as competition."  She smirked again.

"But you did…" Sophie said under her breath.  But the Witch hadn't heard.  Sophie watched expressionless as the grey void and its darker counterparts of grey somehow transformed into a wall of roses.

They were on top of the ruins of what must have been a tower, Sophie realized, eying the crumbling granite stone.  It existed in small mounds, still solid under her feet.  Grass lined the bottom of the keep, a little ways down from where she stood.  The sky was a clear blue that she had not seen for quite some time.  And the wall of roses encircled the keep, ominously entangled in every way.  

"I see you like my invention," said the Witch from behind her.

Sophie gave a soft snort, which the Witch ignored.  In truth, the Witch's creation was gorgeous, if a bit embellished and obsolete.  Though, she had to admit, the roses were wonderful.  There were roses of every hue and array, climbing up the vines, climbing up the trellis, twisting in all directions.  It was like watching a brilliant explosion of color.  The roses were of all shapes and sizes, spilling over the ruins, slapdash and wild, spilling onto the marble paths down below.  There were pinks, and whites, and soft yellows and many other shades, all perfect, all in the prime of their beauty.          

She was reaching out a hand before she even realized, as if she were half-asleep and dreaming.  Dreaming inside a dreaming place.  Her fingers stopped short of their goal, as she abruptly came to her senses.  She had made this mistake before, mindlessly taking one of the Witch's roses without thought or afterthought.  She would not make it again.

Her hand slackened and dropped to her side.

The Witch smirked.

Sophie spun around, dropping all pretenses of dispassion.  She was suddenly very angry.  "What do you want?" she demanded, hands on her hips.  "Why am I up here?  What do these roses have to do with your little game?"

"May I remind you, my dear Ms. Hatter, that shouting and making harmless threats isn't really going to help you.  On the other hand, it might just provoke me into doing something you and I will both regret."  The Witch's smile widened, but her eyes were as cold and as hard as falling stars – which are truly just fallen rocks.  "Go on, enjoy the roses.  They are free of any of my spells – no traps, no foul play by my hand, I guarantee."

And with that she winked out of existence.

Sophie glared at the place from which the Witch had vanished.  "An utter _troll_ of a woman," she muttered to herself, and proceeded to glare at everything else.  She was stuck on the top of the ruins of a tower, which were still a fair distance away from the ground, with nothing but roses (no _doubt _bespelled despite the Witch's guarantee, which was useless since Sophie had no reason whatsoever to trust anything that came out of her mouth) surrounding her.  

"Botheration!" Sophie half-snarled and kicked a pile of seemingly innocuous rubble.  The pain shot hot sparks up her spine, and she staggered backward in a drunken fashion.  

She wound up clutching her throbbing foot, hopping around on the other haphazardly, and clumsily collapsed on the cold stone floor.  "Confound it!" she said and turned her attention away from her now very black-and-blue toes toward the wide array of roses.  "It seems," Sophie remarked, "that my choices have run out, my good roses, and there is not much left to do except enjoy myself or not enjoy myself."  

Flexing her toes so that the color rushed back into them – they were now a very odd and alarming shade of purple and green – Sophie proceeded to drag herself to the tower's edge.  It puzzled her to no end how she could manage to be in a dream without shoes.  It would have proved very advantageous when she kicked the pile of rubble.  She had forgotten that she wasn't wearing shoes then.

Something caught her eye and she nearly forgot about the pain in her toes.  There, in the thicket of roses, was the reddest rose she had ever seen.  It was red, deep red – the red of blood – and its innermost petals were nearly black.  It was so unreal that she was reaching for it, stretching her arm as far as she could while in a sitting position, ignoring her first impulse to check herself, ignoring the hiss of thorns as they greedily scraped her arm, licking off blood, ravenous.

The red-black rose came free in her hand.  Her palm closed around it, and suddenly she gave a sharp gasp of pain.  It had pricked her – treacherous thing that it was.  The blood welled up in the center of her palm in a heart-shaped pattern, dark against the white of her hand.  Sophie stared at it, or rather, glared at it, just daring it to render her unconscious – making her asleep inside a dreaming place.

Wonderful, she thought morosely.  

But as she continued to glower at it, her eyes watering from intense concentration, it remained blood.  Just natural, human, non-magical blood that had resulted from the prick of an apparently harmless rose. 

Now why, Sophie wondered, would the Witch do a thing like that?

It was easier just to take the rose than to ponder the Witch's perverse mind.  Sophie wiped her bleeding palm on the back of her dress – a cranberry-red dress that went rather well with her hair color.  Its existence was another one of those enigmas that came with the question of why she was not wearing shoes.

It was all rather romantic, actually, she thought suddenly.  

Here she was, wearing a ridiculous princess dress, barefoot, picking roses on top of a crumbling stone tower surrounded by a thorny wall of roses and vines.  Sophie half expected for a prince in shining armor on a white horse to arrive any moment.

Whatever the Witch's mind could conjure.

Sophie snorted in a way that would have ordinarily put even her at her most orneriness to shame.  But there was no one to hear her for miles, anyway.  

The only thing wrong with this charming picture, she thought with her lip curling up, slightly disgusted, was that she was absolutely _wrong for anything related to a barefoot-princess-going-mad-in-the-wild-while-waiting-for-a-prince-to-rescue-her situation.  She wasn't born for this!  _

"This is Lettie's sort of thing!" Sophie said aloud.  "She could pull off tragic-princess-in-the-woods much better than I could."

"That's right," she said, now speaking to the roses, having tired of speaking to no one at all.  "That's not me at all.  I – I was supposed to mind the hat shop back in Market Chipping and lead a wildly boring life.  No quibbles, no quarrels, no magic for sure, and _definitely_ no Witches to play games with.  I would have sat in the hat shop, eyes red from sewing by dim light.  Maybe I'd have a husband – a terribly boring husband, perhaps, who could only speak of baking bread and how much to charge for the croissants or how much flour costs these days.  And I'd have four children, running and screaming and making life difficult, but livable.  Or maybe I'd die in childbirth, it happens sometimes.  And before long, I – I'll probably have looked like an old woman.  It wouldn't have been necessary for the Witch to turn me into one."  

A heavenly scent filled the air.  Sophie unfurled her fingers.  She had crushed the petals of the red-black rose in her ranting.  Incited by the scent, Sophie snapped off roses randomly until she sat surrounded by dozens of perfectly formed flowers.  Her fingers itching for some action, she began to make a rose crown, coaxing the roses and their prickly stems and treacherous stems to remain in place.     

"I remember when I was little," Sophie said almost dreamily, in a way that really did not suit her, "I used to dream that I was on an adventure, doing something heroic, out to make my fortune.  I'd be riding my horse through an enormous, tangled forest – which is silly of me since large animals don't take to me under most circumstances.  I always thought that if I went far enough into the woods, I might find a castle.  A grand white castle with tall, thin turrets that spiraled to the sky.  I wouldn't bother knocking at the door; no one would answer.  I would just go in and be polite to everything, even if it didn't move because everyone knows that in an enchanted forest, there would be an enchanted castle with enchanted objects inside.  I'd walk through the castle, swinging my shining sword, until I came upon a sleeping dragon, a magic door, or maybe a beast.  Somehow I'd answer the riddle to set them free or set myself free if I got captured, and then when I went home again, it'd be twilight or dawn so I could still believe in what I saw – ouch!"

She had stabbed another finger in her reminiscence.  She absently wiped that finger on the side of the cranberry-red dress, and continued to talk.  "But that, my good roses, was before I learned to read and discovered that my situation is quite hopeless and that I'm resigned to having a boring baker for a husband.  I have two other sisters – Lettie and Martha – and I'm the eldest.  It means a great deal in Ingary to be the eldest of three.  But of course it means the greatest deal to be the youngest of three.  Being the youngest _guarantees later success.  Martha's bound to find her fortune and wind up living happily ever after.  I can't say that I really begrudge her fortune, but it's hard _not_ to wistfully envy her.  It's almost as if "Happily Ever After" gets to be handed to her on a silver platter just because she's the youngest.  I have to work a lot harder if I want it, and sometimes I don't know how much more I can take."_

Sophie shrugged back her red-gold hair, which was already blowing this way and that in the growing wind, and settled the crown of roses on her hair, a perfect fit.  She eyed the soft pink roses in front of her sternly, "You shouldn't look at me like that.  You try being the eldest of three, it _is a great deal of work.  And I am not whining or complaining.  That's my trouble, you see.  I'm too soft, and Martha tells me that I'm too much of a pushover.  People exploit me too easily and I let them do that.  Perhaps, it's because I know that I'm bound to be a failure."_

_Garbage.  Howl's words spoken so long ago, as it seemed to her, echoed in her mind._

"Howl," she added as an afterthought, "didn't think so.  He said it was because I'm too nice.  And if you wonder," she addressed the roses, "who Howl is…."

Sophie blinked, her eyes suddenly confused.  She tried again.  "Howl is. . . ."  Again, her tongue slipped.

It was odd.  She could see him in her mind's eye, quite well.  There he was – tall, slim, but not all elbows and knees as some other people were.  He had a long, angular face that held curiously green eyes, a straight nose, amused mouth, and disheveled blonde hair that was of questionable color.  Hmm… it was curious how he was wearing a plaid robe and . . . were those bunny slippers?

Sophie blinked, perplexed.

She knew him, but . . . who was he to her?

Vertigo hit.  Sophie staggered to her feet, regardless of the faint throbbing in her toes, her newly made rose wreath clutched in her hands.  It was suddenly very, very important that she remember who Howl was.  He was so familiar, yet she could not place him among her memories.  "I've forgotten him," she whispered.

She blinked again, trying to clear her chaotic mind.  He … he didn't work in the hat shop did he?  Perhaps, he was one of Fanny's new recruits?  No, that couldn't be it.  He was far too flamboyant to work at a dull and dreary place like the hat shop.  Did he even live in Market Chipping?  Sophie didn't think so.  She had lived there all her life, and she had never seen him there before.  

She concentrated on the picture in her mind.  He was leaning awfully close to her, a mere half a foot away.  "Oh!" Sophie said aloud, her mind suddenly churning fast.  She tried to put the pieces together.  He was wearing slippers and a bathrobe – that meant that she and he must be on intimate terms.  She didn't want to think about _how_ intimate those terms were.  Fanny would be horrified and shamed if Sophie turned out to be one of those … _those girls.  _

But, that thought subsided as quickly as it had come.  Sophie didn't doubt herself enough to believe herself capable of such immorality.    

 Sophie further examined her mind's picture of this Howl.  He was amused, and there was this odd light shining in his eyes.  It wasn't of bewilderment or hate (she hoped not), and definitely not lust (that was good).  Perhaps, it was happiness with a smash of joy thrown in.  But it was more than that.  It was as if … - Sophie tilted her head to see the picture better – as if she had made that light come in his eyes.  Something she had said or done had amused him.  Some action of hers had made him happy, joyful.  It was as if . . . he was in love with her.  That light in his eyes was . . . love.  Plain, simple, unadorned love.

Her mental picture shifted its focus to her own image.  There was that same light, though slightly dimmed with hesitation and disbelief, shining out of her own eyes.

"Confound it all!" Sophie whispered, suddenly angry.  How could she have forgotten someone as important as him?  Her eyes fell to the gorgeous roses in front of her that were entangled among green vines and brambles, still newly blossoming and emitting the most luscious scent  that made her want to relax and forget . . . .       

   "The scent!" Sophie half-snarled.  She swung at the roses, snapping them off the vines two at a time.  Soft pinks and blushing violets and bashful yellows fell to the stone floor in a flurry of flying petals.  She was so angry, she didn't pay attention to the scratches all over her wrists and fingers and arm.  Her loaded arm was prepared for a swing at the red-black cluster of roses, which had started her forgetfulness, when a white, lacy, lady's parasol stopped her.  

The Witch had returned.  

This time, she had long, thin fair hair that draped over her back in straight sheets.  She wore a dumpy, white sleeveless sheet, tied at the waist with a thin gold cord.     

"I warned you not to be hasty, my dear Ms. Hatter," said the Witch, a mocking smile on her lips.  Sophie reluctantly retracted her arm.  

"My, what a fearsome glare you have," the Witch remarked easily.  Sophie continued to glare at her, not wishing to retract that too.  

"You lied to me," Sophie said at last.

"I never claimed to play fair," the Witch said.  "I told you this.  But I did not lie.  I swore no foul play, magical bespellments, and traps _by my hand.  And these are __not by my hand, as you can see – they have been in existence for hundreds of years, used to snare one-minded princes to their doom.  They come, astride white horses, white feather caps atop their heads, all for the sake of a story.  A true story, but a story, nonetheless.  This was once a grand stone tower, which could withstand the downpour of rain, lightening from the sky, and other hazards, and the withering of time.  This rose wall was once part of a magnificent maze of brambles and roses, designed to protect this castle from intruders – this meant rescuers and wrongdoers alike.  And for a hundred years, it captured the bones of princes and woodcutters' sons, all whom had died by succumbing to the roses' scent."_

"What happened to the princess?" Sophie asked.  "There was a princess in this tower."

The Witch looked at her coldly.  "Does it matter?  This is just a story, a story inside a dream."

"It does matter!" Sophie near-shouted.  "I have been dreaming for a long time – nearly a hundred years, I've been told.  What happened to the princess?"

"It depends on the version of the story.  It depends on the teller."

"What happens to _me_?" Sophie demanded.

The Witch smiled unkindly.  "In my story, you forget.  You are not rescued.  And you remain dreaming forever, until death and time take you.  But that's just my story, and I am only one teller."  

Sophie met the Witch's gaze with her own stony resolve.  "Then it's lucky that it's only your story."

"Do you think that you can best me at my own game, Ms. Hatter?" the Witch asked.  Her voice was smooth and lilting, at ease, with complete confidence.  "Do you really think I will let you write your own story and make your own 'Happily Ever After'?"

Sophie's voice was steady and clear as she spoke: "Maybe not, but it is obvious that, to some extent, you doubt your own power.  Why else would I be here?  That's why you planned that rose, knowing that I would pluck it from the ground.  You brought me here to make me forget because you're afraid of me!"

"Afraid of you!" the Witch scoffed, looking positively miffed.  "Afraid of you!"

Sophie shrugged.  "You must be.  Why else?"

The Witch straightened, rippling her long sheets of hair.  She flattened the bulges of her peculiar dress and examined her nails with forced calm.  "Tell me, Ms. Hatter, would it be such a bad thing to forget?  These mortals – these humans – these human emotions and ties – have brought you so much trouble.  I made you old once when you got in between me and what I wanted.  I can do so much worse, you'll see.  Tell me, how much more of _this_," the Witch gestured at their surroundings, "can you handle?  You said so yourself that you don't know how much more you can take.  You have been through enough angst, enough trouble, don't you think?"

Sophie said nothing, remaining impassive.  

"I was once as you were," mused the Witch.  "Young, beautiful – though I was much prettier than you, my hair was redder too – and human.  I grew into my power as you did, with surprise.  But I was strong, and I learned that power is the key to everything.  I loved a man once too, but he scorned my devotion and heart because he feared my growing power.  He feared me because I was a girl, and I possessed power, greater than he could ever imagine.  There's not much to say except I exacted my revenge on him.  I showed him that I was a woman to be reckoned with."

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," Sophie murmured softly.  Howl had quoted those words to her from one of his strange and spidery-written books.  Of course, he had directed the comment towards her in one of her manic-cleaning frenzies, tapped her on the nose with a dirt-smudged finger, and then gone off to teach Michael how to assemble another bulky spell.

"True, very true," the Witch smiled, almost genuinely.  But then her tone hardened and she plowed ahead.  "Ingary, this world, cannot encompass people of this caliber – like you and I – in it.  It refuses to accept women with power – all we live for is to be married and produce poppets.  Do you ever get tired of it?  Of never having the time to think for yourself?  Everything is about them, always about them, not you.  Never about you.  You're just a ghost to this world, nothing special.  You exist for the purpose of only existing."

"That's not true," Sophie said.

"Isn't it?" the Witch replied calmly.  "Life is drudgery.  You eat, you work, you sleep.  You wake up again – you eat, you work, you sleep.  Tell me if I speak falsely.  Life is routine, mundane, full of heartache and headache.  Take your precious Howl, for instance.  He's caused you more than your fair share of heartache, and believe me, there is more to be dished out along this path.  Why?  Tell me – why do you stay?"

 Sophie's heart clenched, her eyes suddenly swarming with tears.  They threatened to spill over, but to let her emotions get the best of her in front of the Witch was the same as admitting defeat.

_Tell me - why do you stay?_

                because….

                "I love him," she whispered, realization dawning.  She had never spoken those words aloud before, and the words were strange on her tongue.  "He – he may be vain and selfish and cowardly and overdramatic and heavens know the rest of his vices.  He's caused me heartaches and headaches and occasionally other aches, but I love him.  I.  Love.  Him."

The Witch smirked, no longer slightly sympathetic.  Her eyes twinkled mercilessly, mere stones with black pupils.  "Go ahead.  Shout it to the world, but I'm not sure it will do you much good.  You're too timid.  A little grey mouse."  She laughed prettily.  "The cat meowed twice, and you jumped right back into your little mouse hole," she mocked.  "You love him.  How cute.  How pathetically cute."

Sophie looked at the climbing roses around her.  The rose wreath in her hand, and the crown of roses on her head.  The rose thorns prickled her scalp, and she whooshed in her breath to quell the rising pain.  She looked at the dried blood across her arms, at the blood welling up in her scratched palms.  And looked back at the Witch's mocking face, whose pink mouth pursed cruelly.

                It dawned on her that she had been Sleeping Beauty for all of her life.  The Witch had been right in a sense.  Sophie had been dormant, a ghost of what she could have been.  She hadn't been asleep for 100 years, for what, after all was time in the dreaming place?  But she had figuratively been asleep for 18 years in the real world – in Ingary, in Market Chipping.  And only the past year had she finally been breaking the bonds of her sleep.  But she had not come truly alive yet, not yet that she hadn't won her own Happily Ever After.  

                "How pathetic," spat the Witch, lines of distaste crossing her face.  "Tell me – do you think love is enough?  Enough to balance the drudgery of life?  You tell me that you stay for love – that you accept what this world has designated you to accept because of_ love_?  I think you know better.  Love is temporal.  It is fickle, waxing and waning whenever it likes.  You know better – think you that Howl can love you for longer than a few moments?  Listen to me when I say that love does not last.  It is not forever, no matter what the poets say."

                Sophie recognized the argument, having made those claims herself.  

                "Do you really think that he will still love you when your power surpasses his?  No, he won't, mark my words.  Men are all the same, lusting for control and power.  He won't accept you if you grow stronger than him.  Could you bear to sacrifice yourself for him?  I see in you myself, those many decades ago.  Your magic, your power is you.  How can you live as yourself if you have to forever quell your power?"

                Sophie could feel the truth behind the Witch's words – treacherous, poisonous though they were.  It was the same thing she had told herself in the darkness of her mind.  But she forced herself to look at the Witch, squarely in the face.  "But I'm not you.  I will never make your choice.  Don't you ever tell me that you see me in yourself because we are nothing alike."

                "No," the Witch said coolly, "I suppose we are not."  She stepped backward, the wind slightly ruffling the hem of her white dress, and vanished.

                Sophie stared at the empty face of the tower.  Her hand slackened on the rose wreath; it dropped to the stone floor with a soft thump.  Savagely, she tore the crown of roses off her head, and in the process, ripped out some strands of hair that had entangled with the thorns.  She nearly screamed through exhaustion, frustration, and pain, but bit her tongue instead.  Sophie could not risk an emotional break down now.  It was a beast at the door – these emotions, these _feelings_. 

                She shut her eyes, feeling the heavy eyelids weigh down on her.  She opened them, and tried to focus on matters at hand.  "How can I leave this place?"

                The wind stirred her hair, her dress.  It was getting increasingly cold, she thought sourly, and the cranberry-red princess dress hardly covered anything!  True, it dragged in folds at her feet, but the sleeves came down to the elbows, then fanned out in flowing scalloped sleeves, and the neckline plunged dangerously low.  It was a far, far cry from the unflattering, staid grey dress that had been her habitual uniform for the past few months.  

                But the growing wind had given her an idea.  She could raise a wind, if need be – but where could she go?  It didn't matter, Sophie thought, as long as she tried to rescue herself.

                Sophie closed her eyes and spread her arms wide, murmuring the exact spell of power that she had learned her first week in the Moving Castle.  She felt the wind increasing in speed, rippling, traveling up her arms, flinging her sleeves this way and that in a frenzied fashion.  Sophie opened her eyes and began to run.  Wind leaped around her, propelling her forward, whistling and then roaring loudly in her ears.  Sophie just skimmed the top of the rose and bramble wall.  The sharp edges scraped her bare feet but she willed herself to keep moving.  Grass and dirt clumps rocketed violently past her.  She chanced to look behind her and saw that the tower was almost a small dot in the distance.  

She kept running, watching the ground speed past beneath her.  The scenery changed to the leafy green tops of trees that culminated in an enormous forest.  The hot wind stirred the treetops, sending leaves in cylindrical clouds.  Sophie gritted her teeth and bore on.  It felt good to run, after sitting and standing for so long.  After dreaming for so long – and yet, this was still a dream.  

All beneath her were miles and miles of forest that stretched near as far as the eye could see.  Sophie could see the outline of mountains to her left, which was steadily growing as she sped ahead.  The treetops rushed past her in a dizzying line of green.  She was slowing down now.  The wind's howl wasn't quite as loud as before.  The dirt swirling around her ankles was subsiding, and she shot herself into a clearing at a slow run.  She moved past tall trunks and bushes and brushes, leaving a trace of dust, dirt, and leaves behind.  The wind was still moving at a reasonable fast speed when Sophie touched the ground.  She tumbled off the wind, head first, and in a haphazard flurry of cranberry-red sleeves, red-gold hair, and limbs, she landed on a dry patch of moss with a heavy thud.

"Oww!" she moaned, her reaction belated.  "Remind me to never _ever try raising a wind again.  It is positively the worst way to travel."  Sophie propped herself onto her elbows and tried to coordinate the rest of her body.  She looked up, only to see a large black boot.  A very large black boot.  Which had to be on someone else' foot for why else would there be a boot in the forest?  _

"Hail, lady!" boomed a loud voice.

Sophie scrambled to her feet with a feeling of acute alarm, ignoring the sharp pain in her ribs and the dull sensation in her toes and knees.  "Oh, not you again!" she protested.  "It's just my luck to run into another giant.  And," she added crossly, "it is definitely not 'hail.'"

The newcomer was a different sort of giant than the one she had encountered earlier.  But of course, that giant had turned out to be Prince Justin.  This giant was slighter, but still as muscular.  It was perhaps twenty feet tall, and held a long wooden stick in its hand.  Not a genuine improvement from the club of the last Giant.  This Giant had a thinning head of hair, mere black wisps.  It grinned toothily at her.  Sophie did not appreciate its leer.

"Tis well met then," the Giant growled.

"I – umm," Sophie managed to stutter, and stumbled over a root as she began to retreat slowly.  "I – err . . . ."  Her eyes darted nervously from side to side, from the tree trunk roots protruding out of the ground, to the Giant's flat and misshapen head, and back to the roots.  Come on, she thought.  Come on, roots!  The massive tendrils began to stir, giving a slight audible rumble.  

"What is this?" growled the Giant.  "Some sorcery in the midst?"  He turned his massive head around to look behind him.  Seeing nothing, he whipped his head back around with surprising speed.

But Sophie was not looking at him, so intent was she on galvanizing the roots.  "Come on," she murmured quietly.  "Come on!  Break out of the earth and hold him fast!  Do not slacken your grip on him."  

That did it.  The roots broke out of the binding dirt and launched themselves at the Giant.  He let out an undecipherable sound of surprise, followed by a string of curses, as he struggled to free himself from the iron grip of the roots.  "Treachery," he hissed.  He narrowed his saucer-like eyes menacingly and moved as if to swing at Sophie, but his arms were held tight, as were his feet.

Sophie raised a triumphant face towards his, only to discover that the Giant was swaying dangerously on his feet.  Her eyes widened; there was no way out of the clearing, and the Giant was blocking the way.  She bumped her back against the smooth bark of a large tree.  Her hands gripped its edge, trying to steady herself.      

_Sophie, Sophie, Sophie!_

Something was whispering her name, and as it repeated over and over in her head, it grew louder with urgency.  _Sophie!_

Where was it coming from?

But she didn't have a chance to answer because the Giant was lurching.  The roots gave one last vicious tug, and he was toppling, tumbling, his head crashing through twenty feet of air.  She was standing in his shadow.  She could contrive of no way to escape. 

_Sophie!  Wake up!  Sophie!!!_

Someone was shaking her, gripping her shoulders hard and shouting in her ear.  Her head ached with the raucous noise. 

There was a clear ring of notes from a silver trumpet off in the distance.  The galloping of hooves thudding on the grassy floor.  Someone was making his way through the long expanse of forest.

And the Giant's head was ever looming, nearly smashing her now.  

With a general sense of impending doom, Sophie screamed.

                The Giant toppled with a loud thud in a clatter of falling dirt.  The birds scattered with a soft cawing.  And then everything was silent.     

                She must have been dreaming again, somehow transported once more to the grey void of the dreaming place.  It was curious though, she thought, how the greyness was clearing up, and she could now see the faint smatterings of light.  Light poured out in thin streams.  Sophie squinted, and raised a hand to shield her face.  There was a figure in the middle of the light, dressed in white and edged in hazy black.  He, for she was certain the figure was male, was sitting atop a white steed.  It was so white it made her eyes hurt to look at it.

                "Who are you?" she called, one hand still shielding her eyes from the glare.  "Who are you?"

                _Sophie!  Sophie, wake up! _  The faint calling came again, a mere whisper.

                The faceless horseman slowed his horse to a canter, until he was only twenty feet or so away from her.  

                "Who are you?" she asked for the third time, wonder and bewilderment etched upon her face.  

                He said nothing in response; he only reached up to remove his silver helmet and place it in the crook of one arm.  

                "Why," she said with some surprise, "you're the Masterman!"  And then he was gone, the light was gone, and she was floating once more.  He's not who I think he is, Sophie remembered thinking after he had removed his helmet.  _He is not who he thinks he is._  

                _Sophie!_  The voice was loud and jarring, as if the owner of it was bending over her and shouting into her ear.  

                "Sophie!"

                Something moist pressed against her lips.  Her eyes slightly flickered open, presenting a hazy outline, but she could make out the shapes of eyes, an aquiline nose, and a mouth.  The image sharpened until she could fully recognize features.  

                "Did you just . . . kiss me?" she slurred, words still awkward in her mouth.  She coughed.  It felt like her lungs hadn't been used for ages.  He gave a sheepish inclination of his head and slight shrug of his shoulders.  She knew him, and yet she had to ask . . . .

                "Who are you?" she mumbled, struggling up to her elbows.  Sophie blinked to clear her sight.  A clear golden sky greeted her vision.  Confound it all! she thought, suddenly horrified.  It had been a dream and not – or at least not a dream of the usual type.  There were scabs and thin scratches all along her skinny arms and palms.  And worst of all, she was still barefoot and wearing the cranberry-red princess dress.  He didn't seem to notice her horror, however.  He was kneeling in front of her, dusty, and road-weathered.

                "I am the Masterman," he intoned, his mouth snaking up in a half-smile.  "Master of all men," he added, green eyes twinkling.

                Hadn't his eyes been blue before? Sophie wondered.  She managed to prop herself up into sitting position.  "Master of all men . . . hmmph," Sophie snorted.  "Who's Masterman are you?" she demanded.

                "Yours, I suppose," he answered.

                "Or hers," Sophie countered meaningfully.  He chose to ignore her goading.

                "…But never my own…."

                Had that hint of wistfulness in his voice been sincere?  Sophie looked up at him suspiciously.  But his eyes were blue again, and all that reflected in them was a heaviness that she couldn't fathom. 

                "I am my only master," he intoned with a small, tired smile.  "Not.  Master of all men, but not of myself…."  He shook his head, tossing his unruly black curls back and forth, as if to clear his thoughts.

                His eyes were green again; quick as a cobra and just as graceful, he shot forth a hand to cup her chin and tried to kiss her on the lips.

                Sophie made an indiscriminate sound and jerked herself backward with such force that she nearly toppled over.

                His eyes begged her unhappily.  "Sophie, I love you…."

                "No you don't," she answered firmly.  "You just want my heart!"

                His eyes darted back and forth like minnows, openly displaying his guilt.  "Well," he began.  His eyes were blue again, Sophie noted distrustfully.  The Masterman hung his head and said something that was muffled, toeing lines in the dirt with his tattered muddied slippers.

                "Well what?" Sophie demanded, feeling a certain satisfaction in watching the frayed corners of his silk slippers unwind.

                "Well, it's not entirely false," he admitted.  His eyes shot up to look her pleadingly in the eye: "You don't need a whole heart, do you?  Couldn't we share?  Half and half?"

                Sophie's eyes burned in complete outrage.  The Masterman must have seen the dangerous glint because he hurriedly said, "Or perhaps I'll just borrow a quarter of it, so you can have three quarters?  Honestly, Sophie, don't be a spoilsport!"

                "Spoilsport!"  Sophie said with feeling.  "In this case, I have every right to be a spoilsport about this if I choose!  It's my heart!"  However, remembering the service he had done her, she added as an afterthought: "But . . . thank you – for rescuing me from the dreaming place."

                "You're welcome," he answered with a solemn smile.

***

Author's 2nd Note: REVIEW please!!!!  = D  sorry!


	16. In which Dawn, Day, and Dusk come to a H...

There and Back Again  
  
By Calcifersgrl  
  
Chapter 15: In which Dawn, Day, and Dusk come to a Hut with Chicken Legs  
  
Author's Note:   
  
Ok, so I know it's been a LONG time since I last updated, and I apologize. But I do promise that because it is now SUMMER – I WILL try to make more time to update. I love this chapter - or at least the event of this chapter and especially whom Sophie and the Masterman meet up with. I'm so pleased – 198 reviews! Wow… I never thought I'd live to see the day where breaking 200 wasn't a big deal – lol.  
  
Thank you, fans of this story. Thanks for your reviews cuz without your reviews, I would probably have stopped at chapter 2. This story's come a long way, hasn't it? I began it after my freshman year in high school, and here am I, a yet-to-begin senior. Lol – I'm sure you guys can note the difference in writing style. Yeah, I definitely underwent a change in writing complexity. That would be the difference between being a freshman and a sophomore – I wrote most of this story as a sophomore… seeing how I updated this story only 2x during my junior year….  
  
And that would be enough rambling. After you read this story – be sure to REVIEW!!! I love reviews! I also love e-mails…. Heh, shall I issue a threat? The more you review, the faster I'll write? Lol   
  
But on with the story.

---

Passing column after column of somberly golden trees, Sophie couldn't remember feeling so listless. For all her and the Masterman's trudging, they were no closer to reaching Winter, home of the Witch and present dwelling of those she was trying to rescue. Frustrated with the monotony of the surroundings, Sophie had taken to muttering "Change!" under her breath every so often, an utterance which always prompted a baffled stare from the Masterman. For all her ill-wishing and muttered threats, the scenery refused to change to the much-anticipated features of blistery Winter; instead, it adamantly clung to its golden landscape replete with red-gold leaves sailing off tree branches this way and that – leaves with an odd habit of nestling in Sophie's own red-gold hair. With a sigh, she supposed she ought to be grateful that the leaves were in the right season to complement her hair.  
  
She snuck a glance at the Masterman, who appeared to be eyeing the dirt road they were traveling with considerable interest. His smooth profile was the epitome of elegance, but marred by a rather large smudge on his otherwise classical nose. Not to mention the threadbare state of his robes and slippers. Instead of feeling smug, Sophie sighed for the second time that day. She toed the hemline of her cranberry-red princess dress. She tugged the scalloped edges of her sleeves. She scuffed her equally threadbare slippers on the road, kicking up dust particles. She watched them float past her. Feeling utterly downcast, Sophie hoisted her knapsack over the other shoulder.  
  
It was still early in the morning – the sun had not yet reached its customary perch in the sky – and yet, she felt as if the day had dragged on forever. Perhaps, her irritation and melancholy – yes, she admitted, it was melancholy – were due to the unwillingness of either of the two to speak. The Masterman's moodiness, Sophie reflected morosely, was quite contagious. It wasn't as if they were mad at each other. Her brief quibble with the Masterman over hearts had spun out in quiet and quizzical glances, albeit flirtatious ones on his part. Yet, still there was this silence; and silence in a silent wood piqued her peace of mind.  
  
Sophie tilted her head back, feeling the sun's warmth caress her face, and tried to lose herself in her thoughts and drown out the quiet. I wonder, she mused silently, why they never bothered to mention that heroic journeys are half fight and half anticipation. At the moment, she wasn't feeling particularly heroic. But she supposed even heroes wandered into the doldrums; it was entirely implausible to believe that heroic quests were all "Forward march and tally ho," to take a page from one of Howl's absurd otherworld books.   
  
She tugged her sleeve again with restless fingers, scuffed her slippers some more, and watched the dust particles rise from the road.  
  
"Oh, do stop that," snapped the Masterman with a dreadful scowl. "You're breaking my concentration."  
  
Eyes quickly narrowed, she turned her head and gave him an equally dreadful scowl. Good. She felt like fighting; there was nothing more mood-altering than shouting about something that was entirely irrelevant to the real problem. "I'm sure the dust is quite interesting," she said acidly.  
  
"Well, what would you know? It is," he retorted, glaring right back.  
  
"Only someone like you would think so," she carped.  
  
"Someone like me? Someone like me?" his voice grew more agitated. "Dear woman, what in heaven's name are you trying to suggest?"  
  
Sophie resented being called 'woman' in that tone of voice. She glowered, drawing her lips into a thin line. "I think you should know what I mean." She shot him a contemptuous look as she continued, "Look at you, prancing in your shabby robes and even shabbier slippers like you own this very forest. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I have a good mind to even ask what you are, though you call yourself 'Masterman.' You're a poor case – don't even own yourself, do you! No personality of your own, no real opinions, no heart…."  
  
"So now we're talking about me, are we?" The Masterman's voice neared hysteria. "Well, let me tell you something. I happen to find dust very interesting. And don't you tell me that I'm not entitled to my own opinion, after your little speech on how I lack real opinions, thank you very much." His voice was full of scorn. "Before you tell me to look at myself, take a look at yourself." He eyed her sneeringly from head to toe. "Sorry lot, you are. Too full of self-pity. Why you're nothing but a selfish busybody with the manners and attitude of a hag. So self-pitying that you present this resentful, strong-minded façade because you're too afraid of thinking about anybody but yourself!"  
  
"That's not true!" Sophie shouted, rising to his bait – knowing that he was baiting her, but unable to stand by and let the insult go. "It's not true!" She said again, and then in an angry mutter, "it's not true." She raised her chin derisively. "Why don't you watch your own temper? Dirt, interesting, indeed," she said and snorted.  
  
The Masterman threw up his hands in exasperation: "Heaven preserve me," he said with a look of disgust gracing his face, "I am lost in an enchanted forest with a madwoman of a hag, arguing over the silliest of silly topics. Do control yourself, woman. I refuse to argue any further with you."  
  
"You started it though," Sophie said pointedly.  
  
He didn't rise to her goad, but instead fell into an angry silence. Despite her fuming, Sophie was disappointed that the argument had ended. Though the Masterman had been sharp in his edge-cutting comments, at least they had been talking.   
  
They lapsed into a suspicious silence, each nursing a fraying temper and an angry conscience.   
  
Several hours had passed before the Masterman finally looked up from his pointed study of the dirt path and suggested off-handedly, "We could play a game."   
  
Sophie looked up at him, somewhat relieved to find that he no longer harbored a grudge against her. "Alright," she said after a few seconds, but she couldn't help but be suspicious. "Just what sort of game are you suggesting?"  
  
"Nothing so difficult that it would boggle your mind, my dear half-wit," the Masterman said condescendingly.   
  
"You ought to be nice," Sophie snapped, "otherwise, you shouldn't speak at all."  
  
He skipped a few beats before heaving an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Fine… I just … okay, I'm sorry," he said at last.  
  
As quickly as her temper had heated so did it suddenly cool. "Apology accepted," Sophie said, and had the grace to attempt a small smile. "As for the game …."  
  
"We take turns naming different animals according to the letters of the alphabet. Here, see, I'll start. So I name an animal that begins with an A…." The Masterman furrowed his brow in the semblance of deep concentration: "…Oh, I have it. Armadillo."  
  
Sophie shot him a puzzled look. "Armadillo? What is that? It sounds like either a pickle or a body part."  
  
"Well, it is an animal," said the Masterman. "Oh, alright. A for ant, then."  
  
"Bear."  
  
"Cat."  
  
"Dog."  
  
"Elk."  
  
"What's that? I don't think I've ever heard of these animals that you're naming, aside from 'cat'."  
  
"It doesn't matter," the Masterman said smugly, "they're still animals. It's your turn, you know."  
  
"Frog." Immediately, Sophie thought of the little bullfrog she had or had not kissed who had or had not turned into Howl. But quickly, she turned her thoughts away because the Masterman had triumphantly shouted "Giraffe," another animal which she had never heard of.  
  
"If I didn't know any better," Sophie remarked, "I'd think you were making all of these up."  
  
"Well then," the Masterman retorted good-naturedly, "you don't know any better if you think I'd stoop to making up animal names just to win this game!" He arched his eyebrow and shot her an impertinently inappropriate glance: "Do you want to make a wager?"  
  
"Stakes?" she asked, not trusting the peculiar smile on his face.  
  
"A dance."  
  
Sophie snorted, a most undignified sound if there ever was one. She stopped walking and looked at him skeptically. "A dance," she repeated, turning over the word on her tongue. He had spoken with such solemnity that she wondered whether it would be better to humor him than to quash his request outright. "I suppose you're going to tell me that there's a ball that we need to attend. That rock over there could turn into a carriage, and we'll have six white mice turn into coachmen. Heavens, I don't suppose they even have six white mice in this forest. It'd be a disaster to try to catch."  
  
The Masterman's smile faded and was replaced by a look of mild consternation. "You don't always have to laugh at me, Sophie," he said testily, "I meant what I said."  
  
"So did I."  
  
"But what's your answer?"  
  
"Harpy."  
  
His eyes widened in bewilderment. "Harpy?"  
  
"It's my turn," she explained patiently, with a look of amusement on her face. "I'm on H's. Harpy." Suddenly, she grinned, feeling rather triumphant: "You're not the only one who can come up with odd animals."   
  
"And as for the wager?" the Masterman asked slowly.  
  
Sophie just smiled, oddly feeling in good spirits.   
  
Hours later and several games later, Sophie noticed that the path had grown narrower, or perhaps, the goldenwoods had gotten thicker. She stopped to measure the girth of one trunk, moving to encircle it with her arms. But before she even got close, the ground rumbled and rocked beneath her in a curious din of hoof beats and thunder. She looked up. A faceless horseman decked in brilliant white-gold armor had appeared at the horizon line of the forest. Sunlight seemed to ricochet off the surface of his armor in brilliant twinkles, dazzling Sophie's eyes. His white horse whinnied, a sound of fire and light and … promise.   
  
"What –" she began, a little dazed, but didn't get far as she was thrown against the tree by the raucous vibration. The horse and rider galloped past her in a blur of white-gold.   
  
"Sophie, look," whispered the Masterman. He pointed at the sky with awe from his position on the ground. "What do you make of that?"  
  
Sophie followed his finger and saw that, to her amazement, the sky was changing. Directly above her head came a movement of blindingly white-gold light. It rumbled and roared as it moved overhead, matched in time with the speed of the horse and rider.  
  
She opened her mouth to remark to the Masterman how very odd she found all this, when she noticed that the white-gold light had company. A blood-red mixed with flecks of gold, orange, and yellow light was speeding towards them, as was a cloud of blackness, twinkling with tiny stars.  
  
"I think," Sophie said matter-of-factly, though she felt quite breathless and awed, "that we have just witnessed the morning, day, and night." Then, with a feeling of recklessness and impudence that had never characterized her, she yanked a startled Masterman to his feet, and tightening her grip on his wrist, pulled him after her as she followed in the white-gold horseman's wake.  
  
"Sophie," shouted the Masterman as he stumbled after her. "Where are we going?"   
  
Yes, she had never felt so reckless in her life, with the wind rushing past her face, her red-gold hair streaming behind her like the queer red light moving across the sky. She let out an indiscriminate noise of pure joy, an odd sound between a whoop and a yell, and only yanked him harder as she dodged small shrubbery and leaped over fallen logs.  
  
She thought she might have heard the Masterman whimper as the hem of his robe snagged on a stray branch, but she didn't slow, not for the world. She didn't show signs of slowing until the dust had begun to settle and she found herself standing in a clearing, devoid of goldenwoods. The Masterman stumbled into the clearing minutes after she did, panting loudly. She took no notice of him, her eyes steadily trained on the riders.  
  
There were three – one white-gold, one blood-red, and one dark as night – each atop a horse of matched color. They sat still in their saddles, as if waiting for something… or someone to show up.  
  
She approached them cautiously. From up close, they were even more glorious. Their armor glinted in their respective colors. At a loss for words, Sophie swallowed and then murmured, "Good evening," to the black rider. He remained on his horse, looking as impassive as ever. Sophie's eyes flickered to the black horse. "Goodness, you're a magnificent beast, aren't you?" she murmured quietly to it, taking in its shiny mane, its lustrous black coat, and its eyes brimming with intelligence. The horse whickered softly. Sophie had a good mind to stroke its coat, but thought better of it and hurried past.   
  
To the red and white-gold rider, Sophie greeted them with a simple "Good day," and "Good morning." They, like the black rider, ignored her in kind, their eyes trained on some faraway thing. She wondered at her idiocy in greeting them in such manner when, as she noted by looking at the sky of indeterminate color, no one could tell whether it really was "Good evening", "good day", or "good morning."   
  
It was then that Sophie noticed the hut in the middle of the clearing, to the left of the riders. It was peculiar – evidently put together in the sort of mish-mash way that the Moving Castle was built. It looked as if huge strips of bark had been peeled off and then haphazardly planted this way and that to make up the walls of the hut. The thatched roof was made of material too thin to be straw. Curious, she took a speculative step forward. She still couldn't place the material – it was too fine. Almost like hair . . . .  
  
As she got closer to the hut, she saw that it was perched on four sets of chicken legs, one at each corner of the hut. Sophie pushed aside the shrubbery enclosing the house and started back with a choked yell of repulsion. Hidden behind the thick green bush was a grinning skull resting on a pike made of sharpened human bone. Actually, there was a line of grinning skulls with pikes all around the hut, resembling a makeshift fence.  
  
"Sophie," came the Masterman's voice from behind her. He had followed her to the edge of the hut. "Sophie," he said anxiously. "Let's get out of here. This was a mistake."  
  
She glanced at the riders. Though the horses whinnied and grumbled, the three riders sat resolutely on their mounts, ignoring Sophie and the Masterman's presence.  
  
"This place doesn't feel right," whispered the Masterman, tugging at her sleeve with feeling. "Anyone with the mind to put skulls around their house must be unfriendly. We have to go!"  
  
Yet, before they even had the chance to run, a strange noise rose from the woods to catch their attention. As the sound promptly amplified to a roar, the wind lashed at the tree-tops whose limbs creaked and groaned, a cascade of golden leaves whirled into the air, and the ground trembled below their feet.   
  
The recklessness that had governed her shortly before vanished as a cold feeling washed over Sophie. This was a bad idea, she thought numbly. But she didn't have the chance to dwell on her actions because the Masterman yanked her backward, and both toppled into the shrubbery.   
  
Consciously aware that there was a row of grinning skulls level with the back of her head, Sophie gathered her remaining nerves and peered through the thick bush. Hurtling through the air towards them came what seemed to be a flying kitchen bowl, ringed with flickering green flames. As it came closer she saw it was a sturdy grinding mortar, paddled along by a hideous old hag with a giant pestle. As she whizzed by, the hag carefully concealed any trace of her trail with a birch broom held between her knobby hands.  
  
Sophie gave a shudder. Her brief glimpse of the old woman hunched over the mortar so that her knees nearly touched her chin seemed to burn its image in her head: a nose that bent down, a chin that curved up, warts dotting her face and hands, long greasy black and white hair, and a slight beard. That, Sophie decided, was the quintessence of what witches were supposed to look like, minus the beard, of course. She relaxed her shoulders in a mixture of relief and horror – relief that she had missed meeting this witch and horror because of her impulsive stupidity – and tried to lean back.   
  
Except there was nothing to lean back against. The grinning skull fence was now five feet away, as was the hut. Bewildered, Sophie briefly wondered whether she, the Masterman, and the shrubbery had moved. Then, she distinctly saw the four sets of unusually tall, yellow chicken legs shuffle off as the hut lurched precariously above. The hut made an odd combination of growling and clucking noises. Sophie soon saw that the noise was supposed to be cooing. The hut tottered, swaying this way and that, as if the legs were directionally confused, before halting three feet in front of the witch. Then with careful precision, it tucked its sets of legs underneath and kneeled.  
  
The hag hopped off her transportation of mortar and pestle with a nimbleness that belied her great age. Even from a distance, Sophie could see that the witch's nails were brown, ridged and long. Not to mention the fact that the hag's bosom nearly sagged down to her knees.   
  
Sophie twitched her nose in disgust, harboring the hope that she would never look like that ….  
  
The hag bent stiffly and crooked a finger under the hut's edge and stroked it as one would do to a chin. "Good hut," she crooned in a husky but strong voice.  
  
The hut gurgled and the chicken legs whirred appreciatively.   
  
Sophie smiled at the oddness of the scene, and felt herself rising. The Masterman, seeing what she was about to do, clamped an iron hand around her waist and pulled her back down. "What are you doing?" he whispered harshly. "Are you mad? Are all you Hatters this mad?"  
  
Sophie could only stare at him in puzzlement at the fear and anger in his voice, and at the look on his face. Who did he remind her of? All she could think to utter was, "I don't think I ever told you my last name."  
  
"Don't be a fool, Sophie," the Masterman said, ignoring her reply. "Only a fool would go out there right now."  
  
Suddenly angry, Sophie yanked herself away from the Masterman and viewed him narrowly, challenging him with her eyes. She was dimly aware that he had only spoken out of concern for their safety, but still the word "fool" had piqued her.   
  
"I need something from her," Sophie said abruptly, and scrambled out from behind their hiding-place to her feet.  
  
Animatedly talking to her impassive riders, the hag had her back toward Sophie as she approached. The old woman never ceased her chatter, never gave a single indication that she knew that Sophie existed, and yet when Sophie was within five feet of her, she said, "Hello … Miss Hatter."  
  
Sophie thought her heart would stop, hearing the Witch's words from the old woman's shrunken lips. But fear had never made a coward of her yet, and would not now.  
  
The old woman turned around, and Sophie was afforded a full view of her frightening appearance. Her warty skin folded over itself, her hooked nose nearly curled at the tip, her chin stuck out stubbornly, her bosom really did hang down to her knees, and the thin hairs on her chin and upper lip were quite gruesome to look at.  
  
As Sophie slowly took this in, the hag split her mouth into an even more gruesome grin filled with iron teeth as she gave a slight, almost ironic, bow. With a hand, she gestured at the riders behind her and at her still-gurgling hut, and said, "We have been waiting for you."  
  
"You knew I was coming." Sophie inwardly marveled at her ability to remain calm, especially when all she wanted to do was dive right back into the bush with the Masterman.  
  
"Of course," the hag rasped and gave one more hideous smile. "Baba Yaga knows everything."   
  
"Oh yes," Sophie agreed politely, wondering who 'Baba Yaga' was, then realized belatedly that 'Baba Yaga' must be the name of the crone. "If you're not, well …" she hesitated slightly, "I mean, if you're not the Witch of the Waste, then who are you?"  
  
Her remark was met with amused silence. Sophie glanced up and saw the normally impassive horsemen exchange a look between themselves; even, the hut had stopped gurgling and seemed to peer at Sophie with curiosity.  
  
"You are an unusually blunt girl," Baba Yaga said, eyeing her shrewdly. "And yet I cannot believe that you are a fool, otherwise you would not have sought me out. Nor do I believe you to be exceptionally wise, for the same reason."  
  
"Oh," said Sophie, feeling somewhat giddy. "I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you – I mean, about whether or not I'm a fool."  
  
"A fool, no," said Baba Yaga in a no-nonsense manner. "But a failure, yes."  
  
Sophie's giddiness shrank rapidly. "I've already heard that a good many more times than I would care to," she said tightly. "Thank you, but it wasn't necessary. I already knew that."  
  
The crone surveyed her through heavy-lidded eyes. "Then maybe you are a fool after all …. There is nothing wrong with failure – only with perpetual failure. We must fail in order to learn from our mistakes. You, my lamb, must fail to succeed."   
  
Sophie bit her lip to keep herself from bursting out that failing to succeed was sheer nonsense.   
  
One of the horses whinnied behind Baba Yaga, pawing at the soil and snorting loudly. The hag turned sharply and issued a command without words. The three silent riders flicked their reins and urged their mounts into a gallop. As the growing thunder and roaring eclipsed all thought from Sophie's mind, the horsemen and their respective skies disappeared from the clearing. And then all was silent once more.  
  
"Were they …?" she began tentatively.  
  
Baba Yaga cackled appreciatively: "My Bright Dawn, Red Day, and Dark Dusk. Beauteous, aren't they?"  
  
Sophie nodded dazedly.   
  
The hag suddenly frowned at a thought: "Beauteous, but silent. I shall order them to speak next time they report back to me." She gave a jarring chortle. "Hah!" she barked. "I ought to have given them tongues then!" She embarked on a series of muffled snorts and hacks – laughter at what she evidently thought was a good joke. Even the hut with chicken legs, which had stopped kneeling, was bobbing the hut portion in what Sophie took to be an expression of mirth.   
  
Sophie privately vowed to never snort again as she watched the crone rock back and forth with all sorts of noise erupting from her mouth and nose.  
  
"Well then," Sophie said to no one in particular, "since we evidently don't have much to talk about, I'll just bid you good day and be on my way." She was about to slip away and grab the Masterman when Baba Yaga stopped her snorts and looked so severe that it was impossible to tell that she had been laughing nonstop for the past few minutes.  
  
"Tell me, my duck," said Baba Yaga, "who am I?"  
  
Sophie shook her head mutely. She looked at the rows of grinning skulls, the bleach-white human bones that served as bolt and shutters on the hut, the thatched roof made of human hair, at the grotesque, leering figure standing before her. "You are Baba Yaga," she said evenly.  
  
Baba Yaga smiled awfully. "I am the Crone," she announced. "I am the Mother." Without a pop or noise that indicated the transformation, Baba Yaga stood before Sophie as a matron. She was a handsome woman with ink black hair piled in a domineering bun. She was robust, full of vigor and life. The warts had disappeared, as had the rusted look of her nails. Her saggy bosom had tightened, her chin had straightened, her nose was angular and healthy-sized, and her teeth were white.  
  
Sophie blinked at the transformation.  
  
But the crone, or Mother, as she called herself, was not finished. "I am the Maiden," she proclaimed, and lo and behold, she was. A breathtakingly beautiful girl about Sophie's age stood before her. She had snapping black eyes like jewels, blue-black hair that shone with health, pinkish skin, a figure that Sophie envied, and all in all, made even Lettie at her best look plain.  
  
"But," huffed Baba Yaga, as she transformed back into her own grotesque self, "I prefer this shape most of all. The older we grow, the wiser we become." Her iron teeth glinted as she leered at Sophie. "Tell me, my chuck, who am I?"  
  
Sophie's mind whirred as she slowly pieced it together – the fence, the house, the witch's odd mode of transportation. "You are all women and you are none. All women because you are the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. And yet, you are no woman because you transcend mere existence. You represent the three phases of human existence – the birth, life, and death – and you have the ability to give life as well as take it away. Your mortar and pestle," Sophie's eyes flicked toward the instruments lying behind the quivering hut, "symbolize your dual destructive and nurturing nature. Destructive because it grinds, and nurturing because it prepares food. This combination of destructive, nurturing, and regenerative aspects makes you, well, life, I suppose."  
  
Baba Yaga cackled approvingly. "Whoever called you a fool must be a fool himself," she said. "So you do know now. Good. I am pleased. I should tell you, my chickadee, that I eat fools for breakfast." She grinned horribly at Sophie's look of revulsion. "Oh yes, nice, plump children roasted in chicken broth and just the right pinch of parsley. Oh, and cabbages in the stew," she added dreamily in her oddly pitched voice. She broke off her reverie and leered awfully at Sophie, "Are you afraid of me, my duck?"  
  
"No." Sophie was again surprised to find that her voice did not quiver, but this time, she wasn't expecting to be afraid. "I figured that if you were going to eat me, you would have called me 'my goose' by now – since you find fools quite tasty," she said off-handedly.  
  
"Is that so, my lamb?" crooned the crone, covering up her surprise. "Only fools and stout-hearted princes aren't afraid of me, and we all know that fools and princes are one and the same."  
  
"Well, I am neither a fool nor am I of royal blood. I know you have the ability to either destroy or enlighten, and I suppose I'm hoping that my experience with you will be the latter."   
  
"Dare you enter the gate?" Baba Yaga asked softly. "If you dare, you will enter my little hut and look into the dark mirror."  
  
Sophie understood clearly. Hadn't she read about this back in her school days? Hadn't she dreamed about what it must be like to go where "they saw neither moon nor sun, but they heard the roaring of the sea." Here, at the foot of Baba Yaga's hut, Baba Yaga who commanded time, what were the moon or sun but mere playthings? As for the roaring of the sea, though no sea would be found in the forest, surely it meant the crone's dark mirror, as did the roaring of the Dawn, Day, and Dusk qualify for the roaring of the sea.   
  
"O they rode on, and further on," whispered Sophie to herself, "The steed went swifter than the wind,/ Until they reached a desert wide/ And living land was left behind." For she had indeed entered a land without time, governed by one of the greatest forces alive. From Thomas the Rhymer, the words were, Sophie thought. It was another one of those poems – ballads, they were called – that Howl had enacted out for her.   
  
Sophie eyed the gate. The fence with its grinning skulls was a clear signal to those who would pass through its gates that it was an unearthly world they entered. They had to be prepared for either death or a life-altering enlightenment. It was her move now; did she dare?  
  
"I do," she said with an air of finality.   
  
Baba Yaga gave a slight bow, and with a tilt of her head and a flick of her wrists, said, "After you, my girl."  
  
Sophie walked past her without a backward glance and put a hand on the gate.  
  
"Sophie, stop!" came a yell. The Masterman bolted up from behind the shrubbery and moved toward them. His black hair was disheveled and damp from perspiration. His eyes were wild. They flickered nervously from the intimidating figure of Baba Yaga back to Sophie.   
  
Was it a trick of the light, Sophie wondered, or were his eyes really transmuting from blue to green and back again?  
  
"Sophie … don't." There was something about the way he said her name, the way he pleaded, that caught her attention. She looked at him curiously. Who are you? she couldn't help wondering for the fifteenth time.  
  
Baba Yaga bared her teeth and afforded the Masterman a full view of her glinting iron teeth. He shuddered visibly. "A man," she said, and gave Sophie a sly look. "You have a man, my chickadee. You didn't say so! I love and hate men at the same time. Love, because without them, where would we be?" She cackled at her own joke.  
  
The Masterman stiffened and looked wildly at Sophie, trying to convey his message with the not-so-subtle jerks of his head.   
  
"And hate, because they oppress my children with their absurd notions of superiority." She spat rudely on the ground. "Do not ever forget, my duck, that man, without his woman, is nothing. But neither is woman, without her man, complete. It is in their union that life regenerates. It is in the union that we become whole."   
  
Baba Yaga darted a look at Sophie, who was trying her hardest not to blush. The old woman chortled harshly. "Perhaps, my chuck, you are a Maiden now," she waggled her nearly hairless eyebrows, "but soon you will be a Mother." She made an arching gesture right in front of her stomach and winked at Sophie. This time, Sophie couldn't stifle the blush at the vulgar implication. She reddened, the heat creeping up the back of her neck and infusing her cheeks.   
  
The crone chuckled, "How you blush now! How innocent are the young who dream of greater things and believe there is more to life than what they have presently. But that is not wisdom nor is it foolishness. It is innocence and ignorance… and yours will die soon. I would rather kill your ignorance than you. This is why you have come to Baba Yaga – to live and understand what it means to be alive."  
  
"Sophie, it's a trick!" the Masterman shouted. He amended his words: "What if it's a trick? She eats people! Where do you think the hair on her roof comes from? The skulls on her fence and on the handle of her door? Sophie, don't go in. Don't do it! You'll never come back alive if you step into her hut!"  
  
Baba Yaga's hideous lips curved in a deprecating smile. "Mine is the dark heart of the Underworld, a place where transmutation occurs. But I wouldn't expect a puppet to know that." She cocked her head thoughtfully and crooked her finger at the Masterman: "Come here, boy. Won't you taste delicious with chicken broth. Not as plump and juicy as a child, but you should do."  
  
And as terrified as the Masterman was, his legs began to stiffly walk toward the crone – just like they had when the mermaids had sang their sirenic melody.  
  
"Oh please stop!" Sophie said crossly, and darted in front of the crone's crooking finger. "Look," she said a bit apologetically, "I can't allow you to stew him and have him for supper. That just wouldn't do, don't you see? He's harmless, really. I need him," she said meaningfully. "I need him alive, with me."  
  
The Masterman's eyes flickered to look at Sophie. His eyebrows rose in question.  
  
"I owe him a dance, after all," explained Sophie to the old woman and quirked a reassuring smile at the Masterman. "And besides, though we quibble and have rows, I would miss him if he were gone."   
  
"Oh, don't worry a thing, my chuck," said Baba Yaga dismissively. "Bah! Not much meat on him anyway. Plus, I suspect that you two have been living on berries and small game – I like my quarry to be better fed then that." She gestured at the door to her hut. "Shall we go in, my dear?"  
  
Sophie glanced warningly at the Masterman. His mouth which had opened in protest clamped shut. "Good," she said. "I'll be back in a bit."  
  
This time, she approached the gate and unlatched the door without hesitation. She didn't even wince when she heard the door clank shut with finality. Baba Yaga led the way into the hut with chicken feet. The wooden door's bone hinges squeaked with rust. Sophie politely asked the rust to let go of the hinges, and they did so, to the surprise of the crone.  
  
"You are a witch, my chuck?"  
  
"Of a sort, I guess," said Sophie, and closed the door quietly.  
  
Inside the hut, Sophie was surprised to see how large the quarters were. The walls seemed to be made of smooth granite stone and were cool to the touch. In the middle of the room, if room it could be called, seeming more like a cavern to Sophie's eyes, there was something boiling. As she approached, she could see that it was an enormous black cauldron, spitting and hissing with a strange green-yellow liquid, seemingly bubbling with anger.   
  
"Chicken broth and cabbages," said Baba Yaga nonchalantly. "Would you like some?"  
  
Sophie, remembering the crone's comments on plump children with unease, shook her head politely and declined the generous offer.  
  
Hidden behind the cauldron was a large, circular pool of water. Sophie gathered up the skirts of her cranberry-red dress and carefully knelt by the pool's edge. The pool rippled, though unstirred by any finger or wind. It was as black as ink, and yet, Sophie could clearly see her face in it. Red-gold hair tumbled down her back, though a few locks straggled over her shoulder. Clear greenish-blue eyes stared right back at her.   
  
"Now, my duck," cackled Baba Yaga amiably, "what is your heart's desire?"  
  
Hadn't that been the question Sophie had asked herself over and over again? Though she had, of course, phrased it differently: what did she want?  
  
To live happily ever after crossed her mind. But the image of a perpetually smiling Sophie and a perpetually courteous Howl appalled her – as if they were mechanical dolls. No, it wasn't happiness that she desired, though she did want the concept. But happiness without pain, without the other emotions that made up the human spectrum was nothing.   
  
Does Howl really love me? Do I love him? But she didn't dare speak those words aloud, and she didn't think the answer to those questions were her heart's desire.  
  
"Look into your heart, my girl," murmured Baba Yaga.  
  
Sophie gave her a startled glance. Perhaps, the old woman could read her thoughts, or maybe she could read her heart.  
  
Sophie was silent for a long time. What did she want? To be accepted by everyone. I am not a failure. But that couldn't be the answer either. She did want to be accepted and be successful, but that wasn't all.  
  
Finally, she spoke, boring her eyes into her reflection in the dark pool. It had stopped rippling and was utterly still. In her silence, she had gone over her past like a much-read letter. She relived her joys, her triumphs, her disasters and miseries in the dark pool. It really was like a mirror into the soul, Sophie marveled. She had gone over her fears and failings, and at last, she thought she might have found her heart's desire. "I want," Sophie said at last with a sigh and a shake of her head, "to be content in my own skin. I want the courage to be myself. I want to be able to accept my mistakes with grace, to love and be rejected with grace. I want the wisdom to understand who I am."  
  
"Oh my chickadee," said the crone with a sad smile. "Few give me the answer that you just did, but it is a true answer. It is only when you learn to accept yourself that you understand the full meaning of what it is to be mortal, that you understand the human experience. You will never fully know all, but continually learn. It pains me to tell you that yours is a hard journey, my girl. You will have to go there and back again, full circle two times before you can be content in your own skin. There and back again – it is only then that you can finally view your soul as clearly as if it were this dark pool. And even then, there will still be ripples, marring your vision."  
  
"O see you not yon narrow road/ So thick beset with thorns and briars?/ That is the path of Righteousness,/ Though after it but few enquires," Sophie quoted softly from Thomas the Rhymer. Her journey had surely been beset with thorns and briars. Unbidden, her mind flickered to the dreams of falling snow and a bed of roses, bristling with thorns, that bit and flailed at her arms. She thought about the roses and thorns that curled atop of Sleeping Beauty's crumbling tower. She thought about the singular rose plucked from Prince Justin's disappearing Giant body.   
  
"Well spoken, my duck," said the old woman. She rose from her wooden chair reluctantly, and stretched her creaking joints. "I fear you have stayed long enough. That man friend of yours will have grown quite anxious, I wager. I will show you the door, but you must walk through it by yourself."  
  
Sophie wondered whether the crone was trying to be funny.  
  
"It is an ancient proverb, duckling," Baba Yaga chided her. "All I do is force you to examine yourself in this dark mirror of the Underworld. Only by shrugging off our death shrouds can we live. I have shown you what you must do, and now you yourself must do it."   
  
Sophie took a deep breath as she stood by the door, and glanced back at the crone. "Thank you," she said and meant it.  
  
"Oh, you're welcome," tittered the old woman with a dismissive wave of her hand. "It has been a pleasure to know you, Miss Hatter. You have a kind, generous nature. I am pleased that you are one of us."  
  
"You know what?" said Sophie. "As terrifying as it may be to face you, I have a feeling that surviving the encounter means being forever transformed."  
  
Baba Yaga merely smiled, without her teeth, to a grateful Sophie. "Out with you now, my chuck," the old woman said gruffly. "I'll be needing my supper soon. Good bye, my dear. We will never meet again. Don't trust that boy of yours too much, if you can help it."  
  
Sophie nodded, though she wondered what the crone meant by her last statement. But as Baba Yaga was hurrying her out of the hut, she didn't press the issue. Sophie said farewell, and then headed out the door into the earthly world. She distinctly heard Baba Yaga shout, "Up, hut!" and a clamber of chicken legs as they rose at her command. They made a whirring sound as they began rotating faster and faster, and with a whoosh, the hut with four sets of chicken legs propelled into the air, never to be seen again.  
  
When Sophie looked back around, the skull fence had disappeared as well. Must travel as a package, she thought.  
  
"What a looker," remarked a voice by her ear. "Her face will figure in my dreams for a lifetime," he said. "How I look forward to sleeping now." The Masterman gave a mock horrified shiver.   
  
"Hello to you too," Sophie said pleasantly. "What have you been up to? Hiding behind more shrubbery? Crying your eyes out over your torn hem?"  
  
The Masterman didn't respond as she had expected. Instead, he just flashed a dazzling smile and said, "I really like your dress."  
  
Sophie raised her eyebrows unbelievingly. Hands on her hips, she said staunchly, "I am beginning to wish I'd left you with Baba Yaga. I've half a mind to shove you in a pot and cook you for dinner myself."  
  
The Masterman looked at her anxiously. "You don't really mean that, Sophie … do you?"  
  
Sophie rolled her eyes, not in exasperation this time, but amusement. "Come on, Masterman," she said, "Let's go. We still have a little ways to go before we enter Winter. And I'm really not looking forward to arguing over dirt or cooking methods."  
  
His expressive face looked relieved. "Oh well then," he said casually, "I suppose it wouldn't hurt you to know that I really do like your dress."  
  
Sophie looked up at the sky. The sun was directly overhead, casting the two of them in a warm glow. She sighed. It was going to be a long day.

----

Second Author's Note: Well, that's it for Chapter 15. I have a feeling that Sophie is getting out of character, but then again, I do have poetic license. ; D I love Baba Yaga – she figures in many Russian fairytales, and she is represented as a guardian of the underworld. Though she is normally depicted as a cannibalistic woman, she can also be rather kind – an all-knowing figure who will give you wisdom, knowledge, and truth.  
  
10 pages! Whew… I'm not certain the chapter turned out the way I wanted it to, I'm not pleased with it by any means, but I think it will do. Please review and make my day happy! = D  
  



	17. In which a Wolf is at the Door in more w...

**Chapter 16: In which a Wolf is at the Door in More Ways than One**

By Calcifersgrl

Author's Note: YES! I HAVE UPDATED!!! Just a little over one month too! = D I feel like cheering.

I hope this has given you guys enough food for thought – it IS a little over 18 pages sitting on my computer, you know. My LONGEST chapter, by far! It might

also be the last chapter I can write for a little while. What with school coming up in less than a month (sigh), my birthday coming up (cheers!), and the huge stress of college applications (AHH!)

sigh I'm going to be SOO old! I feel old. sniff My bones creak, and I'm rapidly getting senile. Not even seventeen, yet. = (

Thanks guys for all the nifty reviews = D Makes me feel better about getting senile. Lol.

Lightening Bug: the Howl scene here is just for you! Sorry for the lack of fluff fluff – but hey, tis necessary. ; D For now, that is.

Yes, Heather! punches fist into air great observation! [ie. "I love that the further Sophie goes to the land of winter the darker and more mystical this tale becomes."] Though unfortunately, this chapter isn't so dark and mystical, lol. Sadly enough. = (

Silleress: I know about the HMC movie that they're making. I'm a little dubious about it cuz I really love the book, but thanks for the suggestion.

To the rest of you, all of you who have tried to conjecture about the Masterman's identity… my lips are SO sealed. Lol.

Random Quotes of the Day (er- update):

"But I don't want to marry you at all!" she shouted.

"Of course not," Marak agreed. "I never thought you did. There aren't any volunteers to my kingdom, but we try not to let it discourage us."

- _The Hollow Kingdom_ by Clare B. Dunkle

"Well, I'll be damned!"

"The prospect" said Sir Richard, bored "leaves me unmoved."

- _The Corinthian_ by Georgette Heyer

"_Surely, _cousin, you cannot mean to _jilt_ her?"

":Nay, it wouldn't be seemly. I'll just have to dispose of her, as you might say."

"Good God! _Murder_ her?"

"There's no need to be in a quake. No one will ever know!"

- _The Unknown Ajax _by Georgette Heyer

Sorry – lol. Couldn't resist. Now ON to the story. = D

Contrary to her expectations, the day passed relatively smoothly. Sophie and the Masterman had no trouble filling up the silence, wiling away the tedious trek with amusing anecdotes from their past. It was amazing how much ground was covered, how many golden trees were counted, how much dust was kicked up as they passed obliviously towards the end of Autumn.

It was more amazing still how recalling her childhood brought such a healthy glow to Sophie's slightly haggard face. Her eyes lit up with warmth at the memories, and she vividly sketched scrape after scrape that she had found herself in to the Masterman.

"Of course," she explained, launching into another story, "it was all really Martha's fault. Back when we were children, Martha, besides hanging around the butcher's stalls and learning vulgar cant – she knows nearly sixty words to express herself when she's displeased – had this, well, _knack_ for getting into the most rollicking of scrapes. She has a wonderful head for scheming – they _always_ backfired of course, you know, since she's a little hard-headed and never pauses to polish the rough edges of a plan. What happened was that she detested this horribly loathsome boy named Bobby Smithson, who was the son of the local blacksmith. He was quite a slimy thing, always wearing this odious sneer on his sallow face, his face all in a pucker. Anyway, he used to tug Martha's hair – he said he liked the gold color – and he'd call her the nastiest names and tease her about being the youngest of three...."

"Did he?" asked the Masterman with incurable interest. "What did he call her?"

Sophie gave an ambiguous wave of her hand. "Stuff – Martha never told me. But I suspect that it was from him that she got the other thirty words!" Her eyes gleamed, and she leaned forward confidentially: "I never really believed that butchers could come up with sixty words to say 'Botheration!' or 'Confound it!'"

The Masterman nodded wisely. "I would say," he remarked. "My experience with them is that they slap the meat on the counter, heedless of all the flying drops of blood – ruined a silk shirt of mine! – and just grunt unintelligibly. I shouldn't think they swear much at all, I mean, unless they chopped a finger off with the meat cleaver or something. Usually, it's just a grunt here, or a grunt there. Maybe add a glower to the mix. You know, that sort."

"Yes, that was my impression exactly," said Sophie. "Butchers are a bit concise – must come from the trade, I'd think. But back to the boy – he had this horrid cat which he quite doted on. I think her name was "Goldy-locks" – after Martha, you see," she said with another apologetic smile at the Masterman. "And I might add that it's quite ridiculous, seeing how Martha's hair is no where near gold; it's much fairer – like a mixture between straw and wheat. Anyway, Martha hated the dowdy old thing – and one day, she came up with this outrageous scheme to filch the cat to punish Bobby. She must have been eight then, Lettie was ten, and I was eleven. Lettie – she's the clever one, besides being the beauty – she was the clockwork behind the plan and …."

"So what are you?" interrupted the Masterman.

He was met with an inquiring blank look, and amended his question: "If Martha's the mischievous schemer, and Lettie's the executor, what are you?"

Sophie loosed a laugh and betrayed her indifference with a peremptory wave of her hands. "I would guess I'm the cautious one." She gave a start at the disbelieving look on the Masterman's countenance, and paused remembering her own recklessness concerning three horsemen, an ancient witch, and a certain hut with chicken legs. She held up her hands to acknowledge defeat and amended: "I _am_ cautious – but I am very strong-minded. I expect it must be in our genes – all of us Hatters are particularly stubborn and … and most of us like getting our way."

"Not you?" inquired the Masterman, lifting an eyebrow and letting his mouth snake into a half-grin.

Sophie gave a rueful smile. "Well, of course, I should _like_ to have my own way. But I've learnt the hard way – having two younger siblings who insist on cutting each other's best Sunday dresses for childish revenge – that getting your own way only makes you – well – spoilt! I don't think Martha would have schemed half as much if she had not been convinced that she ought to be in the right! As for me, I read enough to know that I may be strong-minded, but getting my own way isn't always right. Life is about giving and taking – not everyone can live happily ever after, you know."

"I should wonder," the Masterman said with a queer smile on his lips.

Sophie shook off the queasy and uncomfortable feeling that his words gave her, and plunged right ahead into the story of how Martha roped Lettie and her into filching Goldy-locks. They had snuck out of the house behind the hat shop when Fanny and Mr. Hatter were snoring away in their bed, shinnying down the drainage pipe.

"Quite like a conspiracy!" remarked the Masterman. "What an intrigue!"

"Rather was, wasn't it?" admitted Sophie. "It sure felt like it, at the time. But mind, though I was eleven and naïve, I couldn't help feeling like something was about to go horribly wrong."

"'The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry' – er – something of that measure, I recall," interjected the Masterman.

"Well, I say that the best laid plans of eight year old girls will _always_ go awry," retorted Sophie with feeling. "We didn't count on Goldy-locks making such a horrible fuss! Neither did we remember that Bobby's Aunt Agatha was visiting in Market Chipping! What a mess we were in! We ended up chasing the cat around the dressers and then – fancy Bobby Smithson sleep-walking! _That_ gave us quite the rude awakening – and we bolted. But Martha – such a stickler for her schemes – refused to go without the cat – and well… that didn't go on well. It ended with the cat jumping on dour Aunt Agatha, and Martha pleading that we'd only wanted to borrow the cat because we were having trouble with mice in the hat shop – a lie if there ever was one! She shouldn't have used that pronoun – because as it turned out – Lettie and I had just escaped out the window and were fast trying to shinny down the drain pipe. Aunt Agatha – looking so very put out – marched over to the window and hauled us up with her bare hands."

The Masterman gave a delighted laugh. "What a pickle!" he exclaimed. "Sophie," he said with a slight solemn bow, "I never would have thought it in you! You seem more like the type to turn into a dour old matron. Like your Aunt Agatha – and my sister."

"Insulting!" she said, but beamed a little with the innate praise in his words.

"Terribly," admitted the Masterman, but had the cheek to add in apologetic tones, "but I'm not the least bit sorry – so you can forget about making me feel terrible about myself."

"Oh I don't doubt it," said Sophie candidly.

The Masterman blinked innocently at her, and then dropped all pretenses when he saw the unbelieving look in her eyes. "I wonder if all children try to pinch cats," he remarked. "Your story reminds me of the time that my sister and I…"

"You never told me you had a sister!" exclaimed Sophie involuntarily before she could stop herself. It was true though. The Masterman rarely spoke of his past – preferring to shy away from personal questions.

He squirmed uncomfortably under her probing gaze. "Well – er – I – remember having a sister at least. She's quite the strait-laced creature. A sourer woman you can't find. But in our childhood, she was as much a participant in executing schemes as it seems you were!"

And with that, he launched into a harrowing tale of near death and intrigue – all of which, he insisted, proceeded because of a large tabby cat that used to live in the bushes around his house.

By this time, not that Sophie paid much attention, captivated by the tale as she was, the trees were steadily becoming less golden and more whitish. As the Masterman explained how the cat led him quite the merry chase, Sophie observed the change of landscape. It was to her delight that the burnished gold hue of her surroundings welded into an ethereal landscape of white frost when the sun illuminated the sky in a shower of red. White mounds rose up before her vision, bowed down, and raced passed with solemn grace. The leafless trees that marked their path quivered with patches of snow, dressed quite spectacularly in white, almost as if they heralded the coming of a bride … or of a ghost.

Sophie remarked on the serenity of the forest, of the solemnity that Winter wrought, but the Masterman only gave an uneasy glance at the panorama and said cryptically: "Heaven can only guess why _you_ feel so happy; everything around us is dead." He gave a slight grimace and jerked his head uncomfortably, and in a soft murmur, said: "It's as if we're the only ones left in the world."

Sophie's heart gave a jolt at the words and for a brief moment, she could hear her heartbeats race wildly in her ear. Don't be silly, she told herself sternly and tried to swallow down the hint of apprehension that had appeared on the horizon of her mind.

To the Masterman, she voiced her opinion aloud. "Don't be silly," she said, but her voice sounded rather forceful and tinny.

"Sophie," said the Masterman, sounding injured. He gave her a reproachful look. "There are times when I _am_ being silly, and the one time that I'm not!, you scold me all over again!"

"Well of course you're silly," she said automatically, then realized that she had erred and tried again in a kinder tone: "It's not your fault if you're silly."

"No indeed," said the Masterman under his breath, but since Sophie wasn't sure whether that remark was directed at her or at himself, she ignored it.

They hadn't taken more than ten steps before the Masterman took up his argument: "And I'm _not_ being silly. We _are_ the only two people in this wood!"

In a rather flippant manner, Sophie remarked, "But that's silliness in itself! Have you met anyone else in this wood?"

"No."

"Neither have I, but that doesn't mean that there aren't two other people on the opposite side of the wood wondering whether they're the only people here. With all this snow and haze, it wouldn't surprise me if we had passed other travelers without our knowledge even if they stood but twenty feet from us!"

With considerable reluctance, the Masterman merely grunted his agreement.

Sophie bobbed her head in a satisfied manner, glad to be done with another argument.

Twenty minutes later, it was clear that the Masterman had not finished pondering. A look of intense brooding – sulking, as Sophie would call it – crossed his face, and he moodily toed the snow-covered ground with his tattered slippers.

It had always amused her to no end how the costly slippers were unraveling and looking quite woebegone, but now due to the sudden change of climate, she reflected that it was no longer a silly matter. She chanced a glance at his hooded eyes and frowning mouth, and wondered idly whether his morose mood wasn't due to his freezing rather than to his losing an argument. She looked away somewhat guiltily, suppressing a smile, noticing that his nose was starting to become rather pink with cold. It was one thing to pretend to be a brooding, tormented soul; it was another thing to be sulking while nursing a presently pink but slowly reddening nose. The thought alone nearly sent her choking with laughter.

Sophie picked up the heavy skirts of her cranberry-red princess dress. The snow was coming down in gentle flurries, but one glance at the forbidding sky told her that at night, it would be a different story.

It was a pity, she thought, that the Witch hadn't thought to change her dress into a gigantic parka lined with thick fur. It would have been much more preferable and _useful_ in this type of weather.

Of course, she thought off-handedly, the Witch would hardly inconvenience herself by thinking in advance.

She could see the Witch, almost as clearly in consciousness as she could in her dreams. The Witch, Sophie thought, sketching the disdainful figure in her mind, would be sitting on a silver throne with clawed feet – nearly translucent as to be ice – with a scepter shaped like an icicle. She would be bundled in white fur, wearing a magnificent ball gown with white beading, one cold and calculating hand hidden in a white-furred muff.

With a start, Sophie realized that she had imagined the Witch to look just like one of those forbidding monarchs from Howl's _A History of England_ that he had taken from _Rivendell_. Queen Elizabeth, she recalled and sighed a little regretfully as the memory flushed to the front of her mind.

They had been sitting with the workbench between them, the heavy textbook the center of their focus. She had been wearing a forest-green dress – which Fanny had picked out, saying that it did wonders because it contrasted with her hair – and she had been quite self-conscious, half wondering whether Howl noticed that it made her hair stand out, half scolding herself for thinking such a thing.

She had been clasping her knees with her arms, rigid with discomfort. Howl, on the other hand, had had a placid smile on his face – which, she suspected, was threatening to snake up into a smug grin. He seemed to be aware of her discomfort, though he pretended not to be, because he kept making sure that their hands brushed together each time he reached over to turn the page. He also kept turning his fair head to look at her, and she had to force herself to meet his green-eyed gaze.

"Well?" Sophie demanded a little too loudly, stiffening the blush that had been threatening to creep up her cheeks.

A languid smile overtook his face and he feigned surprise: "Well what? I just told you that Henry the Eighth took six wives – divorced the first, executed the next few – and you ask me what's wrong?" A teasing look stole into his eye. "I wonder," he remarked casually, "whether Henry the Eighth was the inspiration for Bluebeard." She was suddenly mortified, her eyes frowning, her lips pinched uncomfortably. Howl looked reproachfully at her. "You didn't think I could ever forget that insult, did you? Me- Bluebeard, indeed!"

She blushed hotly because he was staring at her so intently, and his mouth was twitching slightly, probably with mirth. "You know I didn't mean that!" Sophie said, in a desperate attempt to defend herself. She was mortified to find herself stammering. "You were just Horrible Howl then, and besides, it was just gossip." She added, "I didn't know you then."

Howl shot up an eyebrow speculatively. "Poor Bluebeard," he mourned. "A misfortune of the most lamentable kind. I expect he couldn't help chopping off all his wives' heads – they must have driven him wild by forever staring at his cursed chin."

"Oh, a tragedy, to be sure," said Sophie scornfully. "You're only defending him because you find in him a kindred spirit. Can't own up to your own wickedness."

"Well," Howl said meditatively, "I daren't say I could if I owned such a devilishly ugly blue beard."

She gave a snort of disgust, and was getting ready to issue a retort when she was forestalled. All of a sudden, Howl nearly doubled over the workbench as he gave a choked yelp of laughter. "Sophie, Sophie," he said, moving his hands haphazardly, "you little fiend! Don't think you can smoke-screen me because I well see what you're trying to do!"

"I'm not trying to do anything," she said crossly. "I'm not a fiend, and if I am, then you're the devil!"

"Oh yes you are, my girl," Howl informed her. "You're slithering out of my initial question, and you've nearly diverted me too! Rather neatly done, I say."

"Well, you're a bad influence!" Sophie shot back.

He smiled complacently. "I know." He settled back more comfortably onto his stool, shoving his long legs under the workbench legs. "Well then," he said, "going back to what we were discussing before you slithered out. I would like to know what your loud 'Well?' meant?" His eyes laughed at her as he sent another dazzling white smile her direction, obviously aware of its effect.

There was just no fooling him: to out-slither an expert slitherer would have been impossible. It would have been so much easier, Sophie had thought then, if she had retained her old woman disguise. Old women, she was convinced, couldn't be made to blush, no matter how _nicely _Howl tried to smile at them. He was playing with her, for sure, playing off her discomfort for his own enjoyment.

Sophie straightened, trying to gather her scattered dignity, and said in a voice that embodied maturity, "Stop smiling at me!" She was horrified to find her voice come out sounding so petulant and childish.

Howl's eyes twinkled as he leaned down on one elbow and stared at her much more intensely. "I can't," he said in as solemn a tone as he could contrive, though the smile on his lips threatened to grow even wider.

"You're not trying!" she said, and felt a smile begin to grow on her own face, against her will. "You're deliberately trying to make me uncomfortable!"

His only reply to her retort was to flash her another dazzling smile. "I wonder," he remarked, "what you will do to stop me from smiling, because heaven knows, I have no intention of stopping myself."

Sophie was about to remind him about a certain deadly weed-killer, when Calcifer had whizzed into the room, his green flaming eyebrows drawn down in irritation.

Howl immediately grabbed the textbook and jabbed one finger at a picture of a highly forbidding and severe-looking woman whose rigidly starched hair seemed to be the reason for her discomfort. "As I was saying, Sophie, one of Henry the Eighth's children became the most famous of all of England's monarchs. Queen Elizabeth the First – often called the Virgin Queen. Good ole Bess, we call her, though I don't recall that she was all that good."

"Save it, you old fraud," Calcifer had wheezed, looking somewhat put out. "You don't fool me in the slightest." He scowled, and his blue face looked even more pinched and demon-like. "It's raining in Market Chipping," he announced, "but it's not as if you two _love-birds_ would even notice."

Sophie glanced up at the window, and found the sun to be shining brightly – in Porthaven. "Why, so it is," she offered Calcifer in concession. He just scowled dreadfully at her.

"Cheer up, old blue face," Howl said. "Good thing about rain – it doesn't last."

Calcifer just scowled even more dreadfully at him, and then plunged into the grate to sulk.

Sophie pulled out of her memories into the present. Yes, she would never forget that rigid face – so cold, so pale and fair, as if the Queen had been made of marble. Of course, Howl had explained that the Queen had globed on pints of paint to make herself so white – but still, at that time, Sophie couldn't help giving a little shiver at the portrait and thinking _Witch._

And truthfully, when Howl had recounted how England's pride and joy had executed her lover and cousin cold-bloodedly in a rage of jealousy, she couldn't help feeling justified in calling the Queen thus.

The world, she thought, had a great deal more Witches walking around than people cared to notice. Witches didn't always come with green skin and warts. On the other hand, they were shaped like reeds and potato sacks; had squashed, pug, crooked, aquiline noses, had hair of every color imaginable; had warts, pox, or were spotless - and generally couldn't be distinguished from the ordinary folk, except for what they all shared in common … power.

For a brief moment, recollecting Howl's words in one dream, she wondered whether she really was such a Witch – one of these unfeeling females who took as they pleased.

She was pleasantly jolted out of such gloomy thoughts when the Masterman exclaimed, "But you're wrong!"

"Wrong about what?" she asked, happy to be diverted.

"We _must_ be the only two _people_ in these woods," said the Masterman triumphantly, "because _you_ said that this Witch of yours – though I can't take your word for it, since I've never seen her – specifically tailored this game for you! She created this place as your game board, and we are the only two pieces – traveling, that is. The people that you're to rescue have been strategically placed, and since we haven't come across anything else in the woods, it must mean that there's nothing else in here!"

Much disgruntled, Sophie grudgingly acknowledged his point, to which he smirked in triumph.

As they trudged farther into Winter, the Masterman's happiness over having scored a hit didn't go unnoticed. He no longer minded the cold, handsomely asking whether Sophie would need to wear his robe – to which Sophie reminded him that then, he'd be quite apt to freeze. Even this reminder didn't dampen his mood. His eyes shone blue as a clear day at sea – and there was no mistaking it for green, no matter the light. He sauntered, he strutted, he glided, he –

"Masterman," said Sophie warningly, wishing not for the twentieth time that she had a handy bucket of weed-killer on her, "would you _please_ stop prancing!"

"Only for you," he said gallantly and obediently complied. Sophie just shook her head and wished fervently that the Witch had not seen fit to saddle her with such an addled brain, personality-changing _nincompoop!_ (She took delight in this new addition to her vocabulary, having found it written on an angrily scrawled note from Megan to her brother.)

Night descended swiftly and the twosome hurried to make camp. Though they did not lack in firewood, they found it difficult to coax up a steady fire. However, Sophie managed after cajoling, pleading, wheedling, and finally threatening the flames and wood with a hearty plunge in the wet snow.

With the fire fixed, Sophie rummaged through her knapsack for one of her more faded articles of clothing and pulled out a staid grayish-blue dress. It was looking rather crumpled and wretched, but it would do for her purpose. Murmuring the words to the stretching spell, which she had finally learnt to get right after the disaster with Howl's blue and silver suit, she pulled at one sleeve and found, to her satisfaction, that it stretched quite nicely. Not one to forget things of utter necessity and convenience, Sophie sternly reminded her dress to stay dry and not allow the snow to soak through.

With great aplomb, she laid out the dress – which by then was several feet stretched in all directions – and both she and the Masterman slumped onto it with unchecked gratitude.

"If you even _think_ about shoving me off this bed," Sophie threatened unnecessarily, "I will personally bury you in the snow."

"Wouldn't even dream of it," said the Masterman placidly. He gave a loud yawn. "But I feel obliged to warn you, I may snore tonight."

"I don't doubt it," Sophie said with a wistful sigh, and settled down more comfortably into the yards and yards of dress.

Lulled into sleep by Winter's foreboding silence and by the sharp crackling of the fire that reminded her of Calcifer's cackle, Sophie drifted into dreams. She dreamed of blood-red roses and falling snow. Dogs barked, trumpets sounded – silence hummed as she staggered over a wintry landscape, running, running – always running. Shadow people lingered behind the roses, peeping through the thorns and vines to tease Sophie with glimpses of familiar faces. Her heart lurched, hammering in her ears, in her throat – and she tried in vain to cast off the smooth, fine silver chain that had seemed to glue itself to her fingers with permanence.

_Let him go_….

_No, no, no_ – her heart whispered like the breeze rustling through leaves.

A slim black shadow darted behind the ghostly trees. An echo of hoof beats shattered the stillness with the keenness of a knife. _Hello, Miss Hatter_, a bodiless voice echoed.

_No-thing, no-thing, no-thing_ – the wind whispered back, chilling the hairs on the back of her neck with its icy breath.

Snow whirled around Howl's bent neck. His white sleeves were soaked to the elbows, but he remained immobile, an immaculate kneeling figure. His green eyes were closed, and his fists were clenched till his knuckles showed white. _You hold the other end, Witch._

_"Sospan fach yn berwi ar y tân, Sospan fawr yn berwi ar y llawr,A'r gath wedi scrapo Joni bach,_" hummed a curiously familiar voice, cackling with the spittle and whine of burning wood.

And then she was left standing on the edge of a snow-ridden bank, gazing at her cold surroundings with bewilderment in her eyes. Snow dotted her dress, her eyelids – she could taste the acidity on her tongue. That's absurd, she thought, snow is only water, after all. Lifting one hand to her cheek, she found a trail of tears trickling down her face.

_Nothing, nothing, nothing_ – spoke the silence that pervaded, so strong, so forceful that even the wind stopped to listen.

Sophie woke to find a smooth cold sky that mirrored the smooth cold snow. The world that she had delighted in the day before had sullied upon her wakening eyes, turning as colorless and shadowless as the face of the moon. It murmured of emptiness, of a void. _Nothing, nothing, nothing_, whistled the winds as they wrapped around the sleeping tree branches and ribboned through Sophie's hair.

Everywhere she looked, whiteness stretched to the horizon, only to be met by the dull and colorless sky. Winter had well and truly closed round them.

Her eyes clouded over at the night's dream – a dream that had returned to her with a constancy that rivaled the waxing and waning of the moon - and she tried to push it away. But it was a nightmare that clung to her mind, like smoke to cloth – and all she could remember were the tinkling of glass – or was it ice - and the shards of life and endings that evaporated into air.

Meanwhile, the Masterman had awakened. He stretched his long legs and contorted his limber body as he suppressed a yawn. He blinked, giving Sophie an owlish look, and stared bemusedly at the snow that blanketed the world.

With a queer and faraway look in his eyes, he quirked his mouth into a half-smile before uttering in a low voice:

_"Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast  
In a field I looked into going past,  
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,  
But a few weeds and stubble showing last. The woods around it have it--it is theirs.  
All animals are smothered in their lairs.  
I am too absent-spirited to count;  
The loneliness includes me unawares. And lonely as it is that loneliness  
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--  
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow  
With no expression, nothing to express. They cannot scare me with their empty spaces  
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.  
I have it in me so much nearer home  
To scare myself with my own desert places."_

His voice was quiet – neat and nearly flat – with fluctuations the size of mole hills. As she listened to the words, Sophie's heart gave a curious jump, and her stomach churned, leaving her feeling very much shaken. The last verse in particular, rang with a solidity that couldn't be replicated by any other poem she had ever heard.

She moved her numb lips that were a bit blue with cold, whispering in awe-inspired tones: "They cannot scare me with their empty spaces/ Between stars – on stars where no human race is./ I have it in me so much nearer home/ To scare myself with my own desert places."

She chanced to sneak a look at the Masterman. His blue eyes had misted over and were all the more pronounced – as blue as the rolling waves of Porthaven – and the half-smile lingered on his lips. The maddeningly flirtatious look had vanished, as had the calm inanity that usually occupied his face. The limpid blue eyes under long lashes beheld uncanny intelligence and an excitable passion that made Sophie draw back, startled.

Unbidden, the thought came rushing back: _He is not what he seems_.

Sophie mentally scolded herself. Of _course_, he was not as he seemed. Over and over again, she had been receiving flashes of recollection, of certainty which balanced out with her uncertainty. Things he said and did not say pointed at one thing, only to be refuted by a next thing. She had crossed in ellipses (not circles), entangling herself in a pointless web as she tried to discover his true identity, only to end at the same conclusion she had come to at the beginning: He is not what he seems.

She shivered involuntarily. The Masterman caught her eye and agreed amiably: "Gives you quite the chill, doesn't it? A real Frost. Pity, I can't remember who wrote it . . . one of my favorites though."

"What-what," she said, her teeth slightly chattering as winter's winds tugged and teased at her skirt hems, "does it mean?"

"It's encouragement," he said lightly and flashed Sophie a dazzling smile. "It means that though Winter is daunting because of its bleakness and loneliness, there are scarier things that are closer to home." He seemed to retreat, half-speaking to himself in a low voice: "Loneliness … the damnedest wolf at the door, if there ever was…." He broke off abruptly and had no scruples about giving her a sly look, "Speaking of loneliness…" and sidled closer.

"Oh, you!" Sophie said crossly, quite put out. But secretly she was pleased – a flirtatious Masterman was better than that intelligent, passionate creature she thought she had witnessed in the moments past.

The Masterman thinned his lips into a rueful smile. Clasping his hands together apologetically, he swept away from their campsite with long, dignified strides.

Sophie looked at him with fond exasperation and bent to gather up her belongings.

"Sophie!" came his call, as he turned around to wave at her with impatience. "Come on! Don't dawdle – we need to cover more ground before the snow gets heavy!"

He was right, Sophie found, as the snowfall increased toward midday. She wasn't sure how she could exactly tell that it was noon, for the sun was nearly eclipsed by all the haze, but she could place a cold glimmer of sunlight to be coming from overhead in the sky. In addition to the rapidly increasing snow, it was getting to be bitterly cold as the day wore on. Sophie had tied one of her thickest dresses around her shoulders to keep the wind chill off her back and neck. She had offered the Masterman the use of one of her other spares, but he had refused in a forced polite way that barely held in check, Sophie suspected, his indignation at the image of his wrapping a frightful grey dress around his silken robe.

It was a good thing, too, that he had declined the offer, Sophie thought, as the corners of her mouth tugged up into a smile. The sight of that stodgy grey dress was enough to put anyone in fits. Howl had wanted her to burn it, she had wished she _could_ burn it, but found she was dreadfully attached to it. Ugly and unbecoming though it was, it _had_ been given to her by Howl and held incredible sentimental value.

It was a pity, Sophie sighed, that the grey dress should be so unused.

But as the sun was near to setting and it was clear that Winter now closed round them in a fit of howling and rage, the Masterman suddenly turned to Sophie and tugged on her sleeve with fingers blue with cold.

"S-Sophie," he said, his teeth chattering with the effort. The wind blew mercilessly through his black hair, making it stand up on ends like fur on a frightened cat. "It's c-cold."

Wordlessly, Sophie unbundled the grey cloth and even helped him wrap it around himself in so expert a manner that it would have been possible to fool all but the suspicious that a dove-grey silk dress with lace trimmings was draped over part of his head and around his shoulders.

He shot her a grateful look and squeezed her hand firmly in his gratitude.

Hail assailed them, pelting them from above. Snow clung to Sophie's dress, dotting her face and cheeks, and leaving her feeling icy and numb. What really blew her strength was the wind, which seemed to have been so inflamed with rage that it could do nothing but assail them with breaths of ice. It was a two-edged sword, howling and nipping at their heels, bowling them from behind, and blasting their faces from the front. Her and the Masterman's cheeks were tinged with red, as were their noses. She felt horribly numb, and her feet – she couldn't even feel her feet anymore.

They had sped up their pace now, almost running, just to keep the blood flowing in their veins. Running through heavily falling snow. The woods around them sloped upwards slightly, which made it harder to run. The bottom of Sophie's skirt was heavy with snow, her slippers drenched wet. She nearly stumbled over her hem, but forced herself to keep her legs moving.

"S-Sophie," shouted the Masterman, panting as they slogged forth together. "Y-you know magic. C-can't you make a s-spell to warm us up? We'll f-freeze at this rate." Wind and hail swirled around them in a violent mix.

"I'm not – I don't know that – my magic isn't –" Sophie shouted back incoherently. It was a moment like this, Sophie realized unhappily, which made her wish she had been a more apt pupil of Howl's. She squeezed her eyes together, shutting out the pelting cold, as she frantically tried to recall the warming spell. Had there been a warming spell? she wondered.

"Yes, you can!" bawled the Masterman in a ferocious manner. "Oh, yes you can! If you can talk to trees and fire, you can, without a doubt, try to talk to the snow or wind!"

Had she enough energy to spare, she would have cast him a particularly baleful look. But she was tired, nearly frozen, and downright miserable, and could only acknowledge his point.

With blue lips, she pleaded with the snow and wind to not hit them. Her efforts were not all in vain. She was sure less hail was pelting her head, and the wind did not blow so fiercely at them – but it was clear that the weather had a powerful hand behind it.

"It's no u-use," she cried. "The Witch means for me to freeze to death or to bury me alive in snow – ." She faltered in her speech and stumbled over a half-buried branch in the white ground.

The Masterman caught her before she pitched over in a tangled heap. He set her firmly on her feet and looked at her with so stern an expression she could hardly believe it was the Masterman she was looking at.

"Neither of us is going to freeze to death or be buried alive in snow. You are going to live to a healthy ripe age of ninety and die in your bed surrounded by healthy fat grandchildren, do you hear me?" Sophie was dumbfounded, but had the good sense to stop gaping and nod her head in accord. He was evidently satisfied because he bared his teeth in what she took to be a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. "Good," he said. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, and just concentrate on running."

He grabbed her hand in a deathly tight grip, and shot off through the snow, nearly dragging her along. Snow came down pell-mell on them. Wind lashed at their backs, twined around the leafless trees in so harsh a manner that they creaked and groaned. Sophie and the Masterman skimmed the outskirts of a large frozen field with preserved flowers encased in ice. Sophie did pause a moment to consider the oddity of perfectly preserved flowers in such a display of Winter's rage, but abandoned the field of Elysium from her thoughts. Though she was breathless and felt winded, she seemed to be infused with an emotion that prolonged her strength – in short, shame. She was ashamed of her despairing attitude, her inability to think when brain power was required.

The ghost of a voice spoke in her conscience: _a failure_.

But she didn't heed it; instead, obeying the Masterman to the letter, she concentrated on running.

The ground had leveled; up ahead, Sophie could see that it sloped downward. As they puffed and panted their way closer, something caught her eye. Quiet billows of whitish-grey smoke were lifting into the sky in the near distance.

"A cottage!" Sophie panted, just as the Masterman panted, "Shelter."

He gave her a rare authentic grin before slowing to a complete stop. He bowed from the waist down and gestured at the rising smoke. "After you, my lady."

Sophie rolled her eyes good-naturedly at his gallantry. At the moment, she was so relieved to find any sort of shelter from the winter storm, that she didn't care to give a retort. She merely yanked his icy hand and ran on.

They skidded down the icy downslope, and purposefully loped on toward the source of the smoke. As they dodged trees and skimmed over powdered snow and leaped over fallen logs and pushed branches out of their faces, a square wooden cottage slowly came into view. It was also built in a haphazardly fashion, as if the woodcutter had been extraordinarily slapdash or in a hurry. That alone should have warned Sophie that the cottage was perhaps, not the best of shelters, but neither she nor the Masterman noted the peculiarity of the asymmetrical wooden planks or the assorted geometrical shingles atop the roof.

It was the Masterman who knocked on the door – three quick raps. The wooden door creaked open of its own accord, and Sophie stepped into the dark doorway. Inside the cottage was a single room that was as tidy as the outside was messy. A large four-poster bed with a colorful quilt was tucked away in the corner. Next to it was a gleaming bureau with four drawers. Atop the bureau was a picnic basket with a red checkered cloth covering its contents. Faint daylight streamed into the room through a dirty window, but otherwise, the room was devoid of light.

Sophie took a step forward involuntarily, out of the doorstep and into the sparsely occupied room. On her right, a small wooden table was pushed against the side, a crudely constructed wooden chair was tucked underneath it, but another chair was sprawled clumsily on the middle of the floor. It seemed so out of place that Sophie could not help but take another step forward.

The floor creaked underneath her with each step that she took. A cleanliness zealot to a fault, Sophie strode toward the chair, creaking all the way, and then bent to straighten the chair.

_Creak_.

Ears perked up and eyes suddenly wide with apprehension, Sophie darted a look up to see a crumpled woven cloak at the foot of the bed. It was a deep red that reminded her of the blood rose she had picked in her dream.

Suddenly, she frowned. There was … a _tail_ resting under the cloak. It had been so well concealed that she had almost not noticed it. But there it was, a long, bushy, reddish-grey tail.

"Masterman?" Sophie called softly, nervously eyeing the still tail while slowly backing away. She reached out a trembling hand to steady herself, and promptly felt her legs give way as the room seemed to warp oddly. The wood paneled walls _rippled_, and out of the warping gloom, a pair of keen yellow eyes appeared from behind the bedpost.

_My, what large eyes you have._

_ All the better to see you with._

Sophie let out an audible gasp just as the door behind her shut with a foreboding slam. With a sudden jerk of her head, she saw that she was very much alone. A loud, drawn-out belch drew her attention again – coming from behind the bedpost. A pair of fiendish, yellow eyes gleamed out of the darkness, candidly revealing the carnal interests and hunger of its owner. And then slowly – as if time had begun to slow – the creature emerged from the shadows.

It was rather large, covered from muzzle to tail with thick reddish-grey fur. It owned powerful haunches complete with a spectacular set of sharpened claws. And it had quite the most sinister snout Sophie had ever laid eyes on.

_My, what a large snout you have._

_ All the better to smell you with._

She gave an indiscriminate sound, and scrambled to her feet rather hastily. She laughed nervously, locking her eyes with those of the advancing wolf. "Good dog," she said, not caring that her voice came out sounding rather strangled and high-pitched. "Nice little wolf…"

The wolf merely bared its teeth, which seemed to gleam, even in the darkness of the room. Its snout raised fiendishly as its yellow eyes gleamed in anticipation. It began stalking forward at a somewhat brisker pace, though it evidently still wanted to toy with its victim.  
She was aware that she was holding her breath, nearly rooted to the spot with terror. But she wasn't so far gone that she couldn't run if she needed to. It was with a sinking heart that she realized that there was nothing, nothing in her power that she could use to her advantage. She glanced desperately at the sparse inanimate objects, and inwardly cursed the owner of the cottage for lacking the foresight to grow some vines. Coaxing the air to hold the wolf's body in place was out of the question, as was asking the chairs to bombard the wolf with splinters. No, the only way to save herself was to run as if little Bobby Smithson's Aunt Agatha were after her.

But she couldn't bring herself to turn her back on the wolf to make a break for it, thus exposing her vulnerability. She continued to back away slowly, and with a dull thump, hit the wall. Hands shaking badly, she fumbled for the doorknob, but found to her horror, that it was locked. She jangled the doorknob furiously, harder and harder, as her panic augmented. It reached its zenith with a near nervous break-down when the knob came off in her hand. Staring down at the broken object in her hand with large eyes, she felt her breaths come out vapid and increasingly shallow.

Meanwhile, the wolf continued to advance, its pointed ears perked with interest and its head cocked slightly as if wondering what next Sophie would do.

_My, what large ears you have._

_ All the better to hear you with._

"If – if you stop where you are," Sophie began, her voice shaking as badly as her hands had, "I promise not to throw this at you." The wolf looked at her thoughtfully, intelligence gleaming in its canine eyes. It slowly lifted one paw forward and the next …. Sophie raised the heavy brass doorknob in her right hand and loaded it above her shoulder. "I _do _mean it, you know," she warned it. "I have no scruples against hefting this heavy-weight at you."

It seemed to her that the wolf's already narrowed eyes got narrower. It stalked forward, no longer coy and toying with its prey. The eyes were yellow slits and, Sophie noticed with a gulp, that its grin was feral, vicious, and full of promised cruelty.

_My, what large teeth you have._

_ All the better to eat you with!_

The wolf snarled, salivating at the mouth, and lunged.

Startled into screaming, she blindly threw the brass doorknob at the lunging figure… and missed. The doorknob landed on the wooden floor with a heavy thud and rolled around rather uselessly.

Sophie instinctively threw up her arms to shield herself from a savage mauling, though what defense her arms could prove against the wolf's sharp claws was still questionable, and squeezed her eyes tightly.

Seconds passed, or maybe her heart was beating so rapidly in her ear that she had mistaken them for the ticking of a clock. She was distinctly aware that she was still screaming, still screaming and waiting for the inevitable battering.

But as more heartbeats passed and she was _still_ screaming, she began to feel rather silly for it. Cautiously, she opened her eyes and lowered her arms. Only to be confounded by the sight of the reddish-grey wolf suspended in mid-air, as if it dangled from the ceiling in invisible ropes.

The wolf looked considerably ragged, panting heavily. The wildness in the yellow eyes had diminished, had even begun to look watery. His ears were slicked back with large dollops of sweat that matted its fur.

Before she could help herself, Sophie stretched out fingers to touch the dubious spectacle in front of her, wondering whether it was a figment of her imagination.

One red ear shot up with alarm, and wild yellow eyes regarded Sophie's own. "Don't do that!" came a strained, weirdly-pitched human voice. "I don't _want _to have to bite you."

Sophie stared at it in some consternation. "You just talked," she remarked, taken aback in stupor.

"Do spare me," said the wolf in a world-weary voice. "I suppose talking wolves are a novelty."

"Well yes," Sophie said defensively. "A talking anything can be considered a novelty. But that's not why I'm surprised. You were just about to eat me." To her surprise, the wolf blushed. Or at least, that's what it seemed to Sophie. Red ran up his furred cheeks, tipped his ears into an unbecoming blush. The transformation was over before Sophie realized that she was facing the head of a craggy-faced man with ginger hair. Though the head was attached to a wolf's body and the cheeks still had patches of reddish-grey fur on them, _who_ he was had become rather apparent.

Sophie gaped at him, stunned with good reason. "My goodness," she remarked at last. "The Witch _does_ have a penchant for turning you into canines, it seems."

Ben Suliman twisted his head to give her a pained smile, heavily panting as though his ribcages would break with the effort. "Yes," he said hoarsely. "It would seem she does. Undignified shame, it is." His eyes were clear blue and round as a child's. She wondered how she could have ever seen such ferocity and determination in them, even if they had been yellow at the time.

"Sophie," he wheezed, "not much time, too much effort to suspend my body in the air, can't keep human … for long" as his red hair began to rapidly disappear. More reddish-grey fur dotted his cheeks and sprouted from his neck.

Beads of sweat rolled down his neck and dripped to the floor, echoing in the silence that had sprung up. Sophie watched in a mix of horror and fascination as Ben Suliman struggled to maintain his humanity.

He had seemed to win the struggle, for red hair began to reappear, and one pale cheek was free of any tuft of fur. The strained, bloodless look had returned. "Sophie," he wheezed, gasping for air, "it's the Witch. Don't. Trap. Howl.. leave him…that's the key… necessary… must…leave …" he whined as his voice deepened to a growl.

Sophie heard footsteps from behind her, and recoiled when a careless hand clapped down on her shoulder.

"Oh, it's you," she said as a sigh of relief escaped her lips. The Masterman was frowning heavily at the _creature_ in front of him.

Ben Suliman was frowning just as heavily at the Masterman. His childlike blue eyes bulged disapprovingly, which neared a comical appearance, given that they bulged out of ashen skin. "Enemy," he wheezed, and then his head collapsed shockingly, hanging limply against his chest.

"What the devil!" exclaimed the Masterman. "It talked!"

"It's just the Masterman," said Sophie to the wolf, giving her perplexed companion an inconsequential glance.

The craggy head lifted sharply. "Ask… him," said Ben in a hoarse rasp, "what he's master of all men for? Ask him … _what_ he knows…" He gave a wrenching whine and a deep groan as blood rushed from his face. Beads of sweat gathered at the root of his ginger head. His blue eyes glazed over a little as he struggled to regain consciousness as Ben Suliman, the human.

"Whatever are you doing?" Sophie asked, a wrinkle of concern on her brow.

"What I must…." he groaned. "Must exhaust … cannot fall prey … must … must not let myself revert back into the wolf… I will devour you … she has ordained it so …."

"She!" Sophie exclaimed involuntarily. "You mean the Witch!" She fell silent at once, as thoughts preyed on her mind. "Of course, it's the Witch," she said at last. "This house – you – all of this is just another stage in her game. She's casting the die to her advantage though! I would refuse to play along if I didn't know what's at stake – or if I was too selfish to care!"

"There's a lot at stake," stated the wolf/man grimly, a stern cast to his immobile face. "And you have never been selfish."

Not 'and you have never been selfish yet,' thought Sophie, feeling her stomach lurch unpleasantly. He trusted her blindly. No, not blindly. Just with unshaken faith. It was a frightening thought to see the sober man, so capable of shouldering troubles, trust her implicitly to defeat the Witch. She had never felt so heavy and _burdened_ in her life.

"Everybody's a little selfish at times," interpolated the Masterman coolly, looking at Ben with contemplative eyes. "Can't fault her if she's wishing she'd never taken the Witch up on her demand."

Though Sophie had indeed been wishing exactly that, she couldn't help bridling at the Masterman's careless words. "I'm not selfish enough to consign people I care about to _her_!" she snapped. "Even people who I've never met – I wouldn't wish them at her for all the cheese on the moon!"

"There is no cheese on the moon, Sophie," chided the Masterman gently, a small smile tugging on his lips. "That's just a tall tale told to fanciful children."

She glared reproachfully at him. "Well, I know that! I'm not even particularly fond of cheese."

The Masterman begged to differ.

"And I-" interjected the wolf with an air of pained civility, "am very fond of cheese, though in this state, I'm afraid my tastes run more to the – er – raw nature."

Sophie colored abruptly, having forgotten in the heat of irritation with the Masterman that Ben was there. "Ben," she said, a trifle hesitantly. "What do you know of the Witch's scheme?" He gave a groan of exhaustion and turned a sickened face to her. She hastily amended, saying, "Here's what I know. She has trapped us all in one elaborate fairy tale. You've become the Wolf, and I – I think I might have seen Howl – but," she said hurriedly as Ben's brow furrowed ever so deeply and the Masterman's look was one of heightened interest, "it might have been a dream – he was a _frog_! … I saw Prince Justin too, and he was a giant, but somehow I think I've killed him… and I don't suppose you've seen Martha or Lettie anywhere. Or Fanny?" she added, somewhat thoughtfully.

She wondered how he could turn any redder, but he managed to do so credibly. Pink stained his cheeks, giving color back to his cheeks, his red ears turned much redder, - all of which, combined with his ginger hair, gave him the appearance of a sunburnt radish. From the downturn of his mouth and the unhappy drooping of his blue eyes, she wondered if he wasn't looking… sheepish.

Ben inclined his sweating head toward the crumpled scarlet hood at the foot of the bedpost. "M-Martha," he rasped.

Sophie blinked rather owlishly. "Wait," she said disbelievingly, "what? You mean you ate Martha."

"Couldn't help it," Ben whined unhappily. His expressive eyebrows slanted downward at the tip, adding to his already sloping features. His face darkened with misery, as he let loose another wolfish howl. "I got hungry."

His answer sounded a little defensive to Sophie's ears, and she couldn't believe how calmly she was taking this new information in, considering that Martha was her own youngest sister! But Mr. Hatter had instilled in her the knowledge that if she were ever in a spot of trouble, the only thing to do was to act calmly and with rationale. It was certainly reasonable advice; nothing good ever came from fretting anxiously and threatening to faint, as Sophie had observed from Fanny's favorite pastime. Yet, she thought, if there was ever a time to faint, now was the time.

It was not everyday that a person was graced with the knowledge that her prospective brother-in-law had _eaten_ her sister.

But Sophie did not faint, nor did she betray her feelings with more than one rapid blink of her eyes. Instead, she tried to cast her mind back into her days in the schoolroom, trying to recall the fairy tales. Yes, she remembered. A little girl who proudly wore her scarlet cape as she trotted down this and that path. She had been on her way to her grandmother's house, armed with a basket full of fresh-baked goodies. Though good-intentioned, she had a weakness for flowers and was easily lured by the engaging Wolf into straying from the path. Uneasily, recalling the part flowers played in the tale, Sophie remembered that the Witch had a partiality for flowers too…. But continuing with the nursery story, the Wolf had raced on ahead to the grandmother's house and had eaten the grandmother, only to steal her clothes, donning the nightcap and gown, before tucking himself into the bed.

"I would never," began Ben Suliman in a tone of slightly indignant civility, "wear a grandmother's nightcap. Nothing would ever induce me to do that."

There was a grandmother. In the story, the wolf ate the grandmother and the little girl with the red hood ....

"And Fanny?" Sophie asked, suddenly anxious, her mouth dry. "Was she the grandmother?"

Ben's misery grew. His thin lips frowned even more so, as did his eyes and eyebrows. "Yes," he mumbled, his face white with regret. "I couldn't help it. I can't help it. I get hungry so _often_," he concluded wretchedly.

"Poor Fanny," Sophie remarked to no one in particular. "I can imagine her indignation at being cast in the part of the old grandmother. I think she would have much rather wished to be the sleeping beauty and have her prince – er – Mr. Sacheverell Smith – kiss her awake."

"Actually," he rasped. "I think she must have found herself in the wrong fairy tale because she had _war paint _on. When I – er," here he coughed "made my entrance, she shrieked something about the trial of being a wicked stepmother when she wasn't the least bit wicked and threatened to faint."

Sophie's eyes twinkled appreciatively. "She would," she murmured.

"Yes," he said, but looked at her doubtfully. "But she didn't! I said that if she fainted, it'd be handing herself to me on a silver platter – and then she turned on me! She's quite ferocious, you know. She jabbed and swatted at me with her parasol." He winced as if recalling previous pain. He gave a weary sigh. Miserable, round blue eyes sought sympathy in hers. "I don't normally do this. Sophie, don't look at me like that."

Intrigued, she asked candidly: "How am I looking at you?"

"With reproach! I can't bear it! This body – this insatiable hunger to kill and feed – curse it, my throat feels ready to give way, what with all this groaning and thrashing I've been doing. You must believe me. If I could reverse this all …. Sophie, it would never cross my mind to eat my mother-in-law, or at least I had hoped she'd be mine."

Sophie's heart broke for him. "Oh Ben…" she said sympathetically.

"It's the Witch," said the suspended wolf. "She delights in our miseries and triumphs at our every misfortune. Selfish old creature," he added bitterly.

I am not selfish, Sophie thought. I am not like the Witch. I am not. I am not.

In between these despairing ruminations, a thought occurred to her. It was with large, anxious eyes that she turned toward Ben Suliman and said, "You didn't … didn't eat Lettie too, did you?"

Ben grew indignant, an odd sight, suspended in mid-air as he was. "I haven't seen her at all." Then his look grew worried, "You do suppose she's alright, don't you? She's a brave girl, she can take care of herself, can't she?"

"I don't doubt that she is out there hitting any and every threat with a cudgel as we speak," Sophie said stoutly, at which both the Masterman and Ben exclaimed, "A cudgel?"

Sophie pursed her lips in mock exaggeration. "It was merely an example," she remarked. "Lettie's even more strong-minded then I am."

"That's my girl," said Ben with a fond sigh. He turned pink with embarrassment. "If – if you see her, tell her … tell her… I …" he trailed off.

_I love you,_ Sophie thought. _Tell her I love you_.

But Ben didn't say the words. He looked down with discomfiture, perspiring all the while.

He looked up in time to give Sophie one watery smile. "I think I'm spent," he remarked with forced joviality, and then with one forlorn howl of pain – or was it exhaustion – he willingly let the reddish-grey fur enclose his pale cheeks, cover his abundance of ginger hair, cover his craggy, anxious, earnest face, until all Sophie saw were the tired yellow eyes of a predator, and the long snout and sharp teeth of what had once been Ben Suliman.

He blinked at her with a once-over salute of recognition, then released the air freeze spell, collapsing in an exhausted heap on the floor.

"Oh bother!" Sophie said to no one in particular. "What _is_ it with men and talking about love! You'd think it was forbidden or something."

"He finally croaked, did he?" asked the Masterman interestedly, peering at the reddish-grey mass. "If that isn't the most absurd thing I've ever heard of. A talking wolf-man."

"He's a man!" said Sophie, shooting the Masterman with a look of considerable disgust. "Which you would know if you had made a point of following the conversation, instead of grinning stupidly and looking out the window."

"Sophie," protested the Masterman, looking long-suffering and utterly woebegone, "I've already explained the matter to you. I have lost my heart."

"Indeed," she said mildly, venturing to peer out the window. She rubbed a finger in a circular motion to clear up the window's grime.

"It's very serious," said the Masterman indignantly, following her to peer over her head. Outside, was a mask of white and tranquility. "Like the Tinman, I am on a quest," he announced.

She looked at him with a bemused tilt to her eyebrows. "Indeed."

The Masterman was rapidly losing his patience and his air of wounded dignity evaporated. A glowering frown marred his face. "Oh, how your ears flap and your long nose twitches," he complained sullenly. "Quite irresistible, upon my word."

She heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Alas," she remarked noncommittally, "that knowledge gives me many sleepless nights." Then feeling that she wasn't playing her part to the hilt, she decided she could afford to be generous. "Woe is me," she offered.

He cast her a stern look, and drew himself up with dignity. "I believe you are making fun of me."

"Indeed," she agreed. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she noticed the Masterman's outraged expression. "Besides, you can't lose what you never had!" she retorted.

"That's unkind!" he said reproachfully. "You can hardly tell me that _your_ heart is intact." Upon her startled look, he elaborated: "I know all about your heart. Right bruised, it is. Black with sin, green with envy, yellow with fear, brown with moth-eaten marks, red with rage, blue with melancholy, and grey with uncertainty."

"Is that supposed to inspire me to apologize?" she asked wryly.

"No," he answered, "but it can inspire you to have a little compassion. You're not perfect, Sophie."

"I know," she said through scarcely moving lips.

"You're not invincible, either."

"I'm well aware of that."

"You're much more vulnerable than you know."

Her lips twitched uncontrollably, but she managed to reply in her driest voice that she did know that too.

The Masterman was serious though, judging from the gravity of his expression and the solemn look in his eyes. "Do you know that? Truly know that? You spend so much time either letting the world know _you_ know it, or by building a moat around yourself, donning heavy armor and shutting the visor of your helmet, that I can't help thinking that perhaps, you're not so well aware as you would like yourself to think."

"Thank you," she said, truly amused.

"You learn more by falling than by the fear of falling."

Her eyebrows rose sharply. "Don't you mean," she said mildly, "that 'You learn more by failing than by the fear of failing'?"

"No," he said. "I'm pretty sure it's 'falling' not 'failing,' but at any rate, you could undoubtedly substitute the two."

She was studiously looking down at the fatigued heap by their feet as she casually remarked, "I don't mean to fall or fail."

"None of us mean to, Sophie."

"I suppose you are trying to tell me something through all this nonsense?"

"Not nonsense," he said with a shake of his black hair, "common sense." His large eyes were fixed firmly and earnestly on her face, unwaveringly blue. They flashed with meaning, reminding Sophie oddly of the passionate and intelligent creature she had thought she'd witnessed within the Masterman's dull and volatile brain. It occurred to Sophie that he seemed to be trying to give her a hint.

But a hint for what? she had to wonder.

She regarded him suspiciously, and he seemed to shrink from her gaze. "Are you trying to hint at something?" she said doubtfully.

"Hint?" he laughed loudly. A little too loudly, she thought. "Of course, not." But she detected an uneasy look on his countenance, and his blue eyes flashed green as they darted from one side to another, as though he had just sensed something … or someone. "Oh look, Sophie!" he shouted with a cheeriness that immediately confirmed her suspicions of his suspicions. "The snow has stopped!" The smile he aimed at her was dazzling, but not befuddling. "We'd best be on our way then, if we hope to cover more ground before the snow takes up again."

"What about Ben?" she asked, a note of worry creeping into her voice.

The Masterman glanced nonchalantly at the seemingly comatose wolf. "You mean him, I suppose." He pursed his lips. "Nothing can be done for him. I do think he'll wake up with a splitting headache, but it would better for the both of us if we weren't here for him to use as scratchboard while he sharpens his claws."

"I can't – well – just _leave_ him like that!" she said indignantly.

"You had better," he said firmly, with a tightly closed mouth. "We'll see him again. Sooner than later, that would be my guess." His guarded look checked her retort, but she continued to look at him in a perplexed way. Unbidden, words of his floated back to her, and she remembered something that reassured her. The Witch would have to round up all the supporting characters at the finale in this long drawn-out play that she had choreographed, directed, and produced. She would see Ben Suliman again soon – hopefully as a man next time, she thought. Poor Lettie, she thought regretfully, with a shake of her head. Her lover always having the misfortune to get transformed into a canine!

She glanced at the Masterman, who was looking all over the room with a roving, but wary eye. He had stiffened as if he was being watched. But there was only she (and Ben) in the room, as far as she could tell. Even as she thought this, she began to feel a trifle uneasy – almost as if the Witch's invisible eye were trained on her.

"You told me once that we were the only ones traveling in this wood," she said.

"True," he said. "But even the woods have ears." He suddenly smiled down at her, reassuringly. It was different from any other smile he had ever showered her with. There was no pretension, no dazzle, no glamour, no _affectation_ in that smile – just genuine, warm affection. It was _human._

He had a nice smile.

She swallowed hard and looked away to cover her rapid confusion.

They left the cottage with the basket full of pastries and goodies swinging on Sophie's arm and re-entered into a bleak, grey world. But at least, it wasn't snowing, Sophie considered, and that little thought comforted her. Between dwelling on her newfound ruminations about the Masterman and _who_ he really was, Sophie vaguely wondered how the cottage had come to be locked when she had first seen the wolf and how the Masterman had arrived in the room without her hearing the door open, but she pushed these incoherent thoughts away, and as her stomach gave an undignified and vulgar rumble, she pulled a raspberry scone out of the basket and gave half to the Masterman. The sweet gooeyness of the pastry seemed to fortify her.

Not poisoned, she thought. Cesari's.

She looked at the mound of goodies tucked securely in the basket. She wondered how long the food would last. How long Winter was going to last. How long she would last. Presently, she gave up pondering the near future and began to think of the immediate future – ways of finding some food in the thick, white gloom.

After all, Sophie reasoned, it wouldn't do for her to face the Witch on an empty stomach.

Her heart hammered uneasily. She couldn't help wondering whether she should worry about facing the Witch with an empty heart.

So- what do you think?!?! Make me happy, leave a review!!! = D

Hehe, last quote of the day (from HMC, of course):

"Oh, yes, she's so wonderfully nimble, that sometimes there's no stopping her." – Howl to Mrs. Pentstemmon.


	18. Interlude: Chapter 17 Teaser

**There and Back Again**

By Calcifersgrl

Author's Note: Happy New Year everyone. 2005! It has been FOREVER!!!! Nearly 5 months since I've last updated, and this is only a teaser to the real chapter (which will be completed in who-knows-how-long time.) I am soo sorry for keeping you kind and nice and (patient) reviewers waiting for so long. I hate it when people just seem to stop writing their stories – so I'm also sorry to say that I've kinda become one of _them._

Truth is – besides the schoolwork and the thank-god-now-over college process, I've also been stuck in a rut with this story. I know what I want to happen at the end, it's filling in the middle bits that were giving me trouble. It wasn't _interesting_ anymore, but yesterday, I had a spark of inspiration, so I wrote a page. Then, I thought how long it'd be before another spark came to me, so I decided I'd just post a teaser. After all, a teaser is better than another five months without update.

I owe it to you guys, after all. Thank you so much for the reviews! It's so much fun to write, especially when you know exactly what you want to say.

I can't remember who wrote this exactly – but I'm sorry to say that no, I don't write like Diana Wynne Jones. I started this story when I was a baby (not literally) and at that time, I was consciously trying to imitate her sparse writing, her way of telling a story. But I've grown up – and _this_ is how I write, with lots of description and lots of words. I've tried to capture all the characters from HMC as best as I can, but then again, I'm not Diana Wynne Jones and I'm not going to pretend I am her by imitating her every word. So if you are looking for the sequel to HMC, maybe this isn't for you. But if you can handle creative license, read ahead.

Make my day and review! ) Maybe it'll make me finish writing this chapter faster – make it 4 months, rather than five. Lol.

**Chapter 17 Teaser: Which Tells of Madness …** (the title is incomplete at this point to, and/or subject to change.)

Winter raged in all its majesty, as she slept, pillowed between the gnarled ridges of a black tree trunk, beneath wizened branches that bowed in despair, desperately trying to recapture its withered leaves that the wind had scattered beyond reach. Curled in a half-fetal position, with both arms languidly draped over her body, she might have well been a rag doll for all her animation. Breath hung on her lips like frost, and a blue sheen paled her face. But her hair, splayed like a halo about her head, unabashedly shone a rich red hue, so stark a contrast to the naked white of the mounting snow beneath, that a passerby might have mistaken the color for blood . . . .

"Please . . ." she breathed, with a desperation only hinted at in the break in her voice. Her frozen fingers curled around the white scalloped sleeves, willing him to look at her. "Don't do this."

"I will do … what I must." His head was bowed, and his fingers were laced agitatedly, white at the knuckles. Fine silver and gold chains entwined about slender wrists, and as he gripped his hands, the chains clanked together and gave a silvery, almost inhuman chime. He loosed a laugh – hollow and deadening – in the swirling snow. "La Belle Dame Sans Merci has me in thrall," he whispered, almost to himself. "You hold the other end, _Witch_," he spat, but even his insult lacked vigor, almost as if he were … dying. _Let me go._

"I can't," she said, heart in her throat. "I can't," she repeated thickly, feeling the wetness seep out the corner of her eyes. "They said – she said – I am supposed to hold on to you. That's what I'm doing now," she said and gulped ungracefully through her tears, "holding on."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Snow adorned his blond hair like a crown, and when he raised his head, his eyes were dark. But what frightened her most was that he had no pupils. "I'm sorry," he said again, "but there is no other way."

There was a wild roaring in her ears as if the Porthaven waves had crashed upon the shore. In the background, there was a distant blare of trumpets, mingled with the vicious snarls of wild dogs. She took a step backward. "What do you mean?"

"It is the only way for this folly to ever end," he half-whispered to himself, the heat from the oven illuminating the expression on his face, highlighting the disheveled bits of his hair. His eyes were wild with madness – or were they alight with the reflection of flames? She was suddenly uncomfortable, as if she had been scorched. Beads of sweat trickled freely down her temple, and her previously frozen hands blistered with the sudden heat.

"I'm sorry," he murmured again, this time almost gently. "Goodbye." And then he pushed her backwards into the oven.

_It had just been snowing_, she wanted to cry, bewildered by the flames, as she tumbled in, head over heels. Conscious of the pain that clutched at her heart, she stretched a hand toward the opening, toward him. "W-wait!" she tried to say. But he was impassive and watched with pupil-less eyes as the flames engulfed her red-gold hair and melted the chains clutched in her reddened palms, the chains that wrapped themselves tightly around her wrists.

"W-wait!" This time she screamed, shouted – but the heat blistered the words and her throat was raw, the taste of ashes bitter upon her tongue. _I remember your name_, she tried to say.

Outside, Winter heightened to a howling crescendo, enveloping her in its cold embrace, whipping the red-gold strands so that they swathed her pale face. Wind licked the hem and scalloped sleeves of her cranberry-red dress, as snow maliciously bit at her eyelids. Her cheeks – almost feverish – were evidence of its sting. "Mine!" Winter seemed to cry in unholy glee, swirling, closing around her predatorily. "Mine," it breathed. A ring of frost wafted towards her and settled on her temple like a kiss from lips born of ice and malice. _Mine._

And when she woke up, a name on her tongue, she was alone under a muddled, colorless sky with little to no recollection of who she was or why a ring of puckered flesh circled her wrists.


	19. Which Tells of Madness and an Overabunda...

**There and Back Again**

**By Calcifersgrl**

**Chapter 17: Which Tells of Madness and an Overabundance of Hair**

**Disclaimer: **DWJ – what can I say? She's the best. The pineapple is from Susanna Clarke, the quotes are from the Bard, the fairy-tale bits are from fairy tales, and the rest is my grand old imagination.

**Dedicated: **to my reviewers, who waited … and waited … and waited… and _hopefully _will be pleased with this chapter. I have to say that in the remaining chapters, the pace really picks up. Everything before was about the journey, the fantastical, and growing up. This chapter is sort of a conclusion to that bit of Sophie's life.

**Anonymous-cat: **I didn't base TaBA off of the Snow Queen, even though I will agree that there are similarities. Hans Christian Anderson always seemed too morbid for my taste. I think you will find that there are many stories that include a winter landscape ruled by a white/ice/winter queen (stuff like The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, and I was actually thinking of the White Witch in _The Darkangel_) because the male-dominated society is somewhat fascinated by a really cruel and powerful woman with a heart of ice. It's been done, I know. I actually chose Winter because it also mirrors Sophie's journey – it gets dark, and it really suits the mood of the story. It's about fairy tales, about being lost, about finding yourself – Winter seemed like the perfect setting. Plus, winter is my favorite season cuz you can go SKIING! (heh, that kinda clues you into what coast I live on). The story wouldn't work if I made the Witch of the Waste rule over summer, and plus, it lacks the alliteration. Also, this story branched off this original novel I started writing when I was 13 where this girl needed to rescue her lover from a dream world set in Winter. THAT story tanked and I got bored, and then it seemed better for Sophie and the whole HMC gang to come inhabit the world I had already set up (somewhat).

**Specificity:** Thanks! I love nods to other authors, and I especially love how it turns into a game for the reader to recognize who said what. I think you'll really like this chapter, lol, for the literary references, if nothing else. )

**Cardwitch: **You're really astute, and I LOVED the long review. It's great when people tell me they love my work – but I always appreciate it even more when they take the time to tell me exactly what they liked, and to muse and comment on what they read. Thanks so much!

**Dreamcatcher: **I HAVE realized that too. Don't worry, I've got something up my sleeve, and I think you're the only person to point that out. Kudos! ; D

**To Everyone else: Faith-Catherine, Stars Came Out, Ester, Visitor, Jyska, Thing One And Thing Two, Rosary, Alexian-goddess, Tabitha, Jenny23, Queen of Ithilien, Paulabookworm, chaotic.calm, HauruRox, Pseudomonas, Jolinar of Malkshur, Alisa, neech, Beth, Cardwitch, Loyola, nebulia, beckythorn13, kate, Ever1, RoSeThOrNs, Phoenix, Estriel, Terriah, visayon, know-it-all, Violet Russell, lightening bug, FantasyLovingFreak, Kit Kat903, MaidM, PCBS, Artemis Obscure, QuillSwift, ChocolateEclar **- thank you so much for your support and your hilarious comments. Lol, and your threats. D I'll have to hand it to you, I was definitely quaking in my seven-league boots! ; D (if only…)

**Meg:** HAH! Thanks for letting me ramble.

**Author's Note:** 8, 650 words! 10 pages typed, size 10 font. BAM, baby! I'm BACK! P Btw, **302 **reviews? Man, I LOVE you guys! And now, on with the show….

* * *

**Chapter 17: Which Tells of Madness and an Overabundance of Hair**

Winter raged in all its majesty, as she slept, pillowed between the gnarled ridges of a black tree trunk, beneath wizened branches that bowed in despair, desperately trying to recapture its withered leaves that the wind had scattered beyond reach. _This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen. _Curled in a half-fetal position, with both arms languidly draped over her body, she might have well been a rag doll for all her animation. Breath hung on her lips like frost, and a blue sheen paled her face. But her hair, splayed like a halo about her head, unabashedly shone a rich red hue, so stark a contrast to the naked white of the mounting snow beneath, that a passerby might have mistaken the color for blood . . . .

"Please . . ." she breathed, with a desperation only hinted at in the break in her voice. Her frozen fingers curled around the white scalloped sleeves, willing him to look at her. "Don't do this."

"I will do … what I must." His head was bowed, and his fingers were laced agitatedly, white at the knuckles. Fine silver and gold chains entwined about slender wrists, and as he gripped his hands, the chains clanked together and gave a silvery, almost inhuman chime. He loosed a laugh – hollow and deadening – in the swirling snow. "La Belle Dame Sans Merci has me in thrall," he whispered, almost to himself. "You hold the other end, _Witch_," he spat, but even his insult lacked vigor, almost as if he were … dying. _Let me go._

"I can't," she said, heart in her throat. "I can't," she repeated thickly, feeling the wetness seep out the corner of her eyes. "They said – she said – I am supposed to hold on to you. That's what I'm doing now," she said and gulped ungracefully through her tears, "holding on."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Snow adorned his blond hair like a crown, and when he raised his head, his eyes were dark. But what frightened her most was that he had no pupils. "I'm sorry," he said again, "but there is no other way."

There was a wild roaring in her ears as if the Porthaven waves had crashed upon the shore. In the background, there was a distant blare of trumpets, mingled with the vicious snarls of wild dogs. She took a step backward. "What do you mean?"

"It is the only way for this to ever end," he half-whispered to himself, the heat from the oven illuminating the expression on his face, highlighting the disheveled bits of his hair. His eyes were wild with madness – or were they alight with the reflection of flames? She was suddenly uncomfortable, as if she had been scorched. Beads of sweat trickled freely down her temple, and her previously frozen hands blistered with the sudden heat.

"I'm sorry," he murmured again, this time almost gently. "Goodbye." And then he pushed her backwards into the oven.

_It had just been snowing_, she wanted to cry, bewildered by the flames, as she tumbled in, head over heels. Conscious of the pain that clutched at her heart, she stretched a hand toward the opening, toward him. "W-wait!" she tried to say. But he was impassive and watched with pupil-less eyes as the flames engulfed her red-gold hair and melted the chains clutched in her reddened palms, the chains that wrapped themselves tightly around her wrists.

"W-wait!" This time she screamed, shouted – but the heat blistered the words and her throat was raw, the taste of ashes bitter upon her tongue. _I remember your name_, she tried to say.

_Confusion now hath made his masterpiece,_ whispered a slumbering voice.

Outside, Winter heightened to a howling crescendo, enveloping her in its cold embrace, whipping the red-gold strands so that they swathed her pale face. Wind licked the hem and scalloped sleeves of her cranberry-red dress, as snow maliciously bit at her eyelids. Her cheeks – almost feverish – were evidence of its sting. "Mine!" Winter seemed to cry in unholy glee, swirling, closing around her predatorily. "Mine," it breathed. A ring of frost wafted towards her and settled on her temple like a kiss from lips born of ice and malice. _Mine._

And when she woke up, a name on her tongue, she was alone under a muddied, colorless sky with little to no recollection of who she was or why a ring of puckered flesh circled her wrists.

* * *

She got up, brushing the last kiss of snow off her hair, off her dress, and looked at herself in all her damp glory. It was an odd dress to be wearing – all rich cranberry-red with draping scalloped sleeves – especially if she had meant to traipse around the snow barefoot. Perhaps, she had lost her shoes. But even as she glanced around her, at the snow covered land, she could find no evidence of shoes nor of footprints. It was as if she had suddenly appeared in this landscape, pinched by invisible fingers from somewhere else and dropped in the middle of this serene but stern portrait of Winter. She started to sigh, but instead, coughed. It was the cough of someone who had not breathed air, someone who had consumed a lungful of smoke; this, she believed, as one tiny tendril of smoke escaped her mouth. She gazed at it, wide-eyed, even as it dissipated into the cold morning air. This time, she tried to speak, but her voice came out as a grating croak, and again, smoke rose slowly from her throat, which left her coughing and sneezing and bending over to cough some more. With placid amazement, she realized that she could not speak.

She wondered idly if she was supposed to be shocked by her own speechlessness, as shocked as she had been to find herself nearly covered in snow and without shoes. The matter of the shoes, of course, bothered her. She sensed that she had a practical nature, and therefore, shoes were her first concern. But after minutes of scrounging through the thicket of snow, she gave up, panting in her frustration, feeling the insufferable urge to curse. This attempted word, of course, rolled off her tongue as smoke, and she bent over once more, coughing. The urge to yell or curse had been innate; perhaps, whoever she had been had been overly excitable, frustrated, or loved to talk. She was not quite sure which of the three it had been.

She had an overpowering urge to see her own appearance. Long locks of reddish-gold straggled down the length of her face. She lifted a tentative hand up to her face, and was startled to find how relieved she felt when her fingertips met with smooth, unmarred flesh. She pinched her cheeks. Yes, this was no dream. She was young. Laughter bubbled up her throat, but only emerged as more smoke. Idly, she wondered at the strength of her relief; had she been old before? But that was absurd! The young became old, but the old did not become young. Even though she could not give herself a name or anyone else, she at least had common sense! Yes, she thought, and refused to be bothered about the internal question of age. Common sense seemed to suit her, as did the conviction that she was practical. The dress, however, perplexed her. It had seemed odd at first, but she had a vague conviction that the dress, too, had been pinched from somewhere else and had been draped on her as if she had been no more than a cardboard doll at play.

Meanwhile, her feet were slowly going numb, as were her other limbs. Perhaps it was her innate practicality that spoke, for she thought furiously to herself that her limbs _were_ going to keep themselves warm at whatever cost. Instantly, feeling returned. This, she simply accepted. Strong-mindedness – yes, it suited her well. With these thoughts to occupy her, she hitched up her skirts and began walking the snow-covered path through the snow-laden trees. She didn't bother with direction. _This is the way_, she thought and headed further into the heart of Winter.

Later that day, she stumbled into a clearing with a quaint little pond. She pushed up her hanging sleeves and knelt carefully by the bank, stretching forward a hand toward the frozen surface with the single thought: _melt._

It wasn't a command of single-minded purpose, just a nonchalant thought. It didn't surprise or alarm her when the ice beneath her fingers began cracking, parting, and sinking until her face loomed over a hand-shaped water hole and she finally saw herself. The reddish-gold hair dotted with tiny drops of snow, she already knew. But the eyes – they stared back at her, unblinkingly blue and careworn. There were pale blue circles beneath her eyes, which only served to emphasis the otherworldliness and age of her eyes. Unbidden, her mind whispered: _We have the same eyes. That's how you'll always know it's me._ A memory, she thought, from her past. The speaker, someone she had once known, had cared a lot about – but she couldn't place the whisper. All she had to piece together the beginnings of a puzzle were her eyes.

She relieved her thirst, seemingly ravenous, and ate some snow to fill the empty feeling in her stomach. Then, making her final use of the hand-shaped hole, she splashed cold water on her face, scrubbing the dirt stains till her face was tinged pink, and seemed to contrast horrifically with her hair. _Ginger_, she thought, turning the distasteful word over on her tongue. Her hair had been called that before. And then _gingersnaps,_ but that was someone else's word – a boy she had known, perhaps. _I want to remember_, she thought, but this, she accidentally tried to voice aloud, and only wound up coughing up a torrent of smoke for her trouble. It was as if she were destined to remain shrouded in smoke, she thought wryly, as if the past was always going to evade her, to remain just one step ahead. There had been a man, and a flash of blinding light, and three drops of blood dotting her dress in the shape of a rose unfurled. The man she could not place, the flash, she attributed to the reason for her amnesia, and the blood …well, there was no blood on her cranberry-red gown, and even if there had been, she would never have found the stain for the colors were too close in hue. She laughed then at her own impotence, a sound which rang in the still afternoon air – harsh and grating, full of smoke and ugliness. Like a cackle of a . . . witch.

She left the clearing abruptly, impatiently shaking the snow from her dress, sternly reprimanding herself for shivering when she should have been pretending to be warm. She found herself remarkably amenable to these little games of pretense: _you're warm, you're well-rested, you're not thirsty, you're not hungry_. Perhaps, it was a matter of tricking herself well, of believing her own lies to the point that they became a sort of truth. She hesitated to think the word, but it foisted itself on her mind anyway: _magic._ It could not have been magic. And she was not – not a … witch. Not a witch, she repeated, but her blood hummed a jaunty tune, which seemed to disagree with her statement.

"I am not a witch," she tried to declare fiercely, but her words were drowned in a fit of cackling and smoke. Once she began hacking, and in the process, cackling, she couldn't seem to stop herself, so that when villagers or travelers in the wood chanced to satisfy their idle curiosity about the enigmatic sound, they saw a much-disheveled, barefoot girl in a flowing, romantic princess dress cackling to herself. They didn't dare come even as close as fifty feet, so they failed to see the tendrils of smoke that escaped her mouth or the way the cackling was a result of choking on these tendrils.

Poor girl, they thought before hurrying on their way, eager to put as much distance between themselves and the odd creature. It's mad she is.

She managed to still her quaking lungs, tremulously, as if afraid she would burst into wild fits of laughter again. _I am not mad,_ she thought, clenching her fists. Then again, perhaps, she was.

It had ceased to snow, leaving her to contend with a murky, colorless sky which grew steadily darker as night approached and the raspy whistling as wind wove through the thin tree branches. It would be ridiculous to try her luck sleeping underneath another tree. She could wake up covered from head to toe in snow, or not wake up at all. In the end, she was lucky to find a hollowed out log, just wide enough for her to wriggle in snugly. She blocked one entrance with a wall of snow to keep the wind out. Then, she crawled in the other side, and tried to sleep.

She dreamed, of course. But they were haphazard dreams with no meaning whatsoever, with blaring trumpets and hunting dogs, and running. She was forever running through snow, stumbling blindly on her feet until she reached a clearing where time seemed to still. There was a young man, kneeling with his head bowed, so gravely that she at first mistook him for a statue. Frost lit his unearthly fair hair, and when he turned around, his eyes were lifeless and dark. She could not remember the color of his eyes. Curiously, when he opened his mouth to speak indifferent and castigating words, no sound came forth. Instead, a deep red rose bloomed from his mouth, which contrasted with the strained whiteness of his face. The rose fascinated her. It strangled his speech, and blocked all of his face but the unfathomable hollows of his eyes. Snow fell on his hair in the unwilling shape of a crown. But it was the rose she remembered best. Like the three-petal rose of blood droplets, she thought hazily. It seemed she had been among roses before, blooming and bristling at her feet.

_There were roses of every hue and array, climbing up the vines, climbing up the trellis, twisting in all directions. It was like watching a brilliant explosion of color. The roses were of all shapes and sizes, spilling over the ruins, slapdash and wild, spilling onto the marble paths down below. There were pinks, and whites, and soft yellows and many other shades, all perfect, all in the prime of their beauty. _

She reached for him then, this grave-looking man with icicles in his hair and eyes that could not be remembered, reached for the rose which obscured his speech, and . . . a thin, bony hand clamped down on her wrist. He looked at her unseeingly, lifted one hand almost as if to reach for her too, but it fell back, heedlessly, against his side. Light glinted off the fine chains about his wrist. She was aware of a sudden urge to cry out, but she only managed to cackle in hiccupping intervals, and smoke from the mouth. A sudden flash of distaste, of blinding hate sparked across those unseeing eyes, so startling a change that she tried to speak again, but only managed to laugh in that hateful manner. He vanished in the snow, rose and all, and it was only then that her maddening laugh turned to unsteady sobs. But there was the matter of the unrelenting hand on her wrist.

"_Someone has been sitting in my chair,_" the owner of the hand remarked. "Do not meddle in the affairs of Witches, but how like you! Always plucking roses when they do you no good in turn. I'd have expected you to learn from all your mistakes – I daresay there are many – but it only goes to show that you'll lose in the end. Mark my words, roses will be your downfall."

_Envy's sting doth make her heart Winter,_ hissed a voice as cold as cut-glass.

The girl turned to look at the speaker, drowsily, as if still waiting for the man with the unseeing eyes to reappear. The newcomer was something out of the ordinary. She was tall, had fair pigtails that hung past her waist, and wore a filmy white dress that only accentuated her plump, rounded features. But what was so extraordinary about her was that she was blurry around the edges, as if she had one foot in this world – whatever world that could be – and another foot somewhere else. Curiously, she could see two versions of the speaker. Behind the fair façade, there was a shadow of a person, old but regal, at _least_ seventy-five to her mind, whose sagging breasts and knobby knees and elbows were drowned by the dress. The old woman had spindly arms, and sharp features that reminded the girl of a bird. Her grey hair, which hung over one shoulder, held traces of an agreeable red, which made the girl reach up to touch her own hair.

"Cat got your tongue?" asked the Witch – for she must have been one to cover her age with youth – in a deceptively pleasant voice. She tinkled with laughter like clear silver bells; her counterpart cackled, shrill and raspy.

Fascinated, the girl watched in mute wonder. For every gesture, every expression that the Witch made, her counterpart mimicked. The difference was that each time the Witch spoke in that honeyed voice, diamonds and roses dropped from her mouth. It couldn't have been pleasant, she thought, to have rocks and thorns rolling off one's tongue. Suppose the Witch went to sleep – though she wasn't quite sure if witches slept in general – she would wake up on a pile of sharp rocks and prickly thorns. Roses, again. The girl bent to scoop one up in her hand, careful to catch the flower on the petals where there were no thorns, but she only succeeded in scooping up air. Puzzled, she looked at the emptiness in her hand and the small pile of roses and diamonds surrounding the Witch's feet.

_Would that I_ _thrice presented her a kingly crown which she did thrice refuse: was this ambition?_ murmured a distant voice, sounding of falling snow and water skimming over rocks.

"What do you think you're doing, Miss . . ." but the Witch paused here and gave a malicious smile, "Whatever-your-name-is?"

She ignored the Witch's goading and peered around the Witch's coolly gesturing form to the shadowy old woman. The counterpart had gotten even blurrier, if that were possible. She seemed to be surrounded by thin wires and rather large rocks, but as the girl widened her eyes and saw the objects move, she realized that the wires were lithe snakes and the warty rocks were toads. They stayed restless by the old woman's feet, blinking up at the girl with wide, mocking eyes. One extraordinarily ugly toad, whose eyes were nearly covered by the mass of wrinkled skin, hopped toward the girl in great, deliberate jumps. _Do you _want _to be a toad?_ It seemed to say.

She hesitated. She knew those words.

"Well, this is rich," remarked the Witch, her blue eyes steadily moving from the girl in front of her, to the empty spot on the ground where the girl kept staring. "I never thought you'd go mad." She tittered, and her other self cackled. "I shall be forced to reward him with his heart's desire, the poor fool. He must have gotten you well. He must have driven in that thorn deep."

The Witch paused to let her word's full effect take place on her foe in front of her. To think that she had once been afraid of this ginger-haired mouse! But the Witch waited in vain, her triumph dashed. The girl was not listening. She was now occupied with staring in open-mouthed wonder at a spot next to the Witch's booted foot. "Well, tell me," the Witch continued, her annoyance visible on her lovely but borrowed face. She wanted to both throttle and slap the girl into paying attention. "Did you really think he wouldn't betray you? Did you really think that he was in love with you?" The Witch laughed with unadulterated glee. In the shadows, her counterpart spat another toad from her mouth. "Love, love, love. _Love's not Time's fool. _Only fools love; the wise love power. What is love for another compared to love for oneself? Nothing," she said softly and maliciously, her eyes beady with fixation. "_Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love. _Everyone will save themselves first. No one is exempt. _No one_."

_Lord, the air bites shrewdly; it is very cold, _murmured a voice like the crackling of leaves in Autumn. "Do you know that I tried to get you before?" the Witch whispered. The girl watched as both the Witch and the old woman spat diamonds and roses and snakes and toads. Something odd happened then. A long, wriggling snake slithered out of the Witch's mouth. And another one dropped and wriggled at her feet. In fact, as the girl kept watching, the roses and diamonds were swallowed by snakes and toads, until all that was left were those enormous mocking eyes, croaking and hissing sinisterly. As astonishing as that turn of events, the girl was no less amazed by the following transformation. _Into something rich and strange,_ a voice hissed. The Witch was beginning to grow less blurry and clearer, as if she really did have edges. The girl thought the old woman would vanish, but it was the fair, plump woman who disappeared as the old woman sidled into her place. Even more astonishing was that fact that the Witch clearly did not notice her own change. She continued speaking, bitingly. "With another rose, _my infinite jest and most excellent fancy._ It is the stone in your shoe, the thorn in your thumb, and yet, always your downfall. But _he_ thwarted me, _he_ who I hold in the palm of my hand! But I am no fool – I have lived too many years to risk being one – and so I set two prongs to my trap. Unpleasant," here, she chuckled as if reliving a memory, "if removed, but even then, there is no skirting around the second prong. A kiss of ice has settled around your heart, so that if he were free to love you – not like he would when he could have me – you could never love him back." Her small, yellow eyes glittered with triumph. Even old and spindly as the Witch now appeared, she was stately. "My genius," she murmured, "overwhelms me, at times."

The girl opened her mouth to say something, but a ring of smoke emerged and blew in the Witch's face. "Don't you know, my dear," said the Witch coolly, unperturbed, "that smoking is fatal for one's health."

_I have a speech of fire that fain would blaze, but that this folly doubts it,_ murmured a distant voice. The girl tried to laugh then – and the sound she had hoped for came. Great clanging, jarring cackles. She could not speak, but perhaps, this . . . .

The Witch merely smiled, showing yellowed teeth. She reached one bony hand up to readjust the filmy sleeve, which was threatening to fall over her even bonier shoulder. She tossed her grey hair streaked with red, as if her locks were still long and golden.

_She doesn't know_, the girl thought. _She can't see what I see_.

The Witch smiled sunnily. "Would you like to know something odd? I liked you better when you could actually talk. But I can't complain, your state suits my plans perfectly. _He'll _never want you now. _He_'s terribly vain about looks, as you well know. You might as well be frothing at the mouth the way you smoke. And that laugh, my dear, I told you smoking is fatal for one's lungs. Not to mention the mere fact that you've gone stark raving mad – well, I couldn't have asked for a better present."

_Let the galled jade wince. The worm is her only emperor for diet,_ hissed the dimming voices.

The Witch sneered at her once-formidable foe. "But didn't you know, Miss –?" she said in mock astonishment, one hand over her sagging breast. "Oh, but, I suppose you didn't. Roses are for silence." And with that sobering statement, the Witch stepped sideways and vanished, her jeering laugh hanging in the air. _Mine, at last.

* * *

_

When she awoke in the morning, her limbs stiff from maintaining their position all night, she tried to piece together all that she could remember from the dream. It had been a dream, but not one at the same time. She _knew_ that voice, she _knew_ the Witch with a certainty. The Witch was responsible for her inability to remember, her inability to speak. And now, she needed to speak, but most of all, she needed to remember.

There had been a man. No, there had been two, or maybe there had just been one. _I know you_, she had thought as she stared into his unseeing eyes, but now, as it was morning, she could remember little, but the fine silver chains entwined about his wrists.

_Roses are for silence_. That, she remembered well. She remembered the rose that bloomed from the unseeing man's mouth as he tried to speak. She remembered the roses that fell from the Witch's mouth, all thorny and hideous. But there had been another rose, or merely, a reference to one. A rose – its thorn – which had proved to be her undoing.

Roses and diamonds and toads and snakes. _I can see_, she remembered. _I can see everything the Witch's magic has touched._ She wasn't mad, contrary to what the Witch thought. Or maybe seeing was another form of madness. She wasn't sure, and resolved to put away all thoughts of madness in some neat corner of her mind to revisit.

Snow was falling now, inch by inch, alighting her red-gold hair with frost. It fell faster and faster in a dizzying whirl until the world seemed to be ice and snow and ice and snow.

_Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast . . . ._

The line surfaced in her mind, as vivid as if someone had recited directly into her ear. _I know that voice. I know that line_, she thought, but she could place neither. The rest of the poem rose to her mind with a fluidity that surprised her. It rushed and ebbed and chilled her to the soul, with or without all the snow.

. . . . _And lonely as it is that loneliness _

_Will be more lonely ere it will be less—_

_. . . .They cannot scare me with their empty spaces_

_Between stars--on stars where no human race is._

_I have it in me so much nearer home_

_To scare myself with my own desert places._

It had to mean something to her, didn't it? The fact that she had managed to retain the poem nearly word-for-word ought to have meant that its power over her was of a greater ilk than that of any the Witch possessed. Surely, the Witch would have sought to erase all memories of the things dearest to her. And then, unbidden, the uneasy thought surfaced. What if the Witch _had_, in fact, erased the things dearest to her? What if the Witch had allowed her to keep the memory of the poem to serve some greater purpose? But she could not divine an ulterior motive for the words. Loneliness, winter, white stretching for miles and miles. Isolation. There was plenty of that.

By midday, she must have, by her own account, traipsed through half of Winter and back again, and she was tired beyond comprehension. Tired of pretending that her limbs did not ache from cold; tired of having things go around and around in her head with no way to un-muddle the mess; tired of the voices that kept whispering, jostling each other in her mind, hissing and murmuring and cutting up her peace.

_Fair is foul, and foul is fair/ Hover through the fog and filthy air,_ one voice breathed in disapproval, presumably at the colorless sky. The other voices chimed in: _The bright day is done, and we are for the dark._

Confound it and botheration, she wanted to cry, but found that, as always, her tongue refused words. She pressed her hands against her temples, trying to rid her head of its unwelcome din.

_Oh, my offense is rank; it smells to heaven_, one voice commented dryly. _But truth hath shapes strange and terrible/ And this truth a most terrible one._ Still, the voices seemed to obey her command and kept quiet. They were, by no means, gone. She could hear the rustling of leaves and chattering of streams and the whistling of the wind – and everything seemed to have words.

I must be mad, she thought, not for the first time.

_Oh but madness becomes thee well,_ murmured a wry voice in her ear.

She was at once furious because it fed the assumption that she was mad. To argue with voices in her head only proved the point. She wished she had some weed-killer at hand. Of course _he_, she thought, would call up green slime.

Then she froze: weed-killer and green slime, objects of a bizarre sort. They _had _to mean something to her, had to prove a link to her past. The Witch had failed to realize the potency of these objects to trigger the memory. And perhaps, the Witch realized this mistake, because as soon as the girl started to grasp at pieces of her past, using weed-killer and green slime as a marker, the memories began to rapidly shrink.

Green slime. There had been horrendous quantities of slime, coming up to her ankles, which oozed and dripped and crawled toward a hearth. It dribbled down the stool and clung to _his_ legs with the stubbornness of a burr. _"Nice! You would! You did it on purpose. You couldn't rest until you made me miserable too. Look at it! It's ginger! I shall have to hide it until it's grown out! Despair! Anguish! Horror! _Yes, the caterwauling and temper tantrum had come before, and had resulted in a vile aspic that had nearly drowned the whole castle. In her mind, she tried to clear away the green slime that covered _his _face as one would clear cobwebs from a dusty attic, but found that her hand came away even stickier than before. There was no use; she had better concentrate on the weed-killer as a memory refresher.

She had killed her daffodils, and she had been furious. _He_ had made her furious because he was no longer angry. There had been another reason, but she could not remember what. _Envy's sting doth make hearts like Winter,_ remarked a knowing voice inside her head. She had stumped off with a bucket full of a poisonous brown liquid. There really had been a castle, she remembered, but on the outside, there had been a weedy terrace with statutes along the edge and steps down to the drive. The exterior was completely ramshackle – with broken windows and vile green mildew creeping up the peeling walls. The image was fleet though. It had cleaned itself up, probably out of shame. There had been clean statues and curtains and glass. The shutters were white, and the house had been repainted, as if green mildew had never had an opportunity to start a colony. There had also been a marvelous gilded lion as the doorknocker. And there had been weeds and grass dying left and right … but the memory stopped, as if a careful hand had clasped wickedly clever scissors and had snipped off the thread that ran through her mind.

_Stop it, _she thought, raging inwardly because she was powerless to prevent it. _Stop it!._

_You're behaving just like a baby,_ remarked a voice that she knew well. It was a female voice, spoken with strict severity.

_Who are you?_ She wondered.

_We know what we are, but not what we may be, _gurgled the wry voice of early on._ Tell me where all past years are/ Or who clef t the Devil's foot._

_But I _don't_ know who cleft the Devil's foot_, she protested in her thoughts.

_We can't all be Mad Hatters,_ said a masculine voice that she thought she knew.

_The lunatic, the lover, and the Witch are of imagination all compact, _chimed in another voice, hissing its disapproval.

_Heavens, what a web of deception must we now unravel_, murmured a clear voice, which rang above the others.

_They will turn me in your arms, Lady,_ intoned a deep bass, _into a lion bold._

_You harrow me with fear and wonder,_ sighed a rustling voice.

_Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love_, whispered an odious, goading voice.

_All strange wonders that befell thee/ And swear/ No where/ Lives a woman true, and fair…_

_…This bodes some strange eruption to our state, _remarked a crisp voice like boots crunching leaves.

_They will turn me into adders and asps, to flames that burn fast, to doves that beat their wings in your face and swans that peck you, _whispered the bass, fading with each word.

_How shall you know your true love from another? _tinkled a voice like spraying glass.

Another voice murmured, amused: _The players cannot keep counsel, they'll tell all._

_Confusion now hath made his masterpiece,_ hissed the disapproving voice. She felt sure that she had heard these words before.

But in answer to the sudden flurry of voices, the wry voice, which had started the mess, interrupted, its tone severe: _Enough. You have had your riddle._ And then the voices desisted, leaving her very much alone in a swirling fog of grey and snow.

* * *

On the third day, she thought she wouldn't be surprised if she'd managed to loop around and wind up in the same spot. Every skinny birch looked identical, every bare-faced tree was tall and gaunt and whitewashed from the howling wind and the swirling snow. Whoever, she thought with some disgust, had created the place clearly had had no imagination. She may have stopped to wonder just how she knew that her surroundings were artificial, but she had no answer for that. She just knew. It was someone's world – this world of perpetual Winter, where everything from the ground to the sky was desolate and colorless. She was just a game piece, placed on an unknown path, with one clear goal – to win.

_All the world's a stage, and the men and women merely players, _hummed a satisfied voice. It sounded particularly smug.

_Go away, _she thought.

_I only tell the truth,_ said the voice, even smugger than before.

She merely rolled her eyes and picked up her skirts.

By afternoon – and she only knew the times of the day because she felt the minutes tick away in her blood – a glimmer of sunlight had parted the normally grey and murky sky. It was a sign, perhaps, that the rules of the game were changing, or perhaps, that she had managed to find her way out of the labyrinthine landscape. Later, when she saw the ice wall, glistening like a wet sheath, in the distance, she was sure. It continued to grow as she limped the last hundred yards, her bare feet blue with cold, but immune to their state. There was a single peaked tower rising from above the wall, strange and rather slapdash. And she soon saw why, after she had lifted a hand and placed it on the wall and forcefully willed it to melt. Water trickled freely down her fingers, ran down her long scalloped sleeves, dripped on the hem of her dress, and seeped through her toes.

There was now a human-sized hole in the ice wall, large enough for her to squeeze through. _I am a Witch_, she thought with some trepidation. But she accepted this statement, as she had accepted her lack of shoes, her strange and flowing dress, and the reality of her dreams. It was merely another form, another transformation. _Into something rich and strange, _a voice murmured wickedly.

She stepped through. The tower _was _slapdash, as if its architect had been in too much of a hurry to correctly stack the bricks of ice on top of one another. Bricks crisscrossed and jutted out in a haphazard fashion, and the only reason that the whole tower did not come tumbling down was, to her mind, that it had been bespelled to stay intact. She could hear the ice groan against the weight of gravity, could hear the deep rumble as the bricks shifted uncomfortably against each other, as she circled the tower. On the backside, she made a surprising discovery. Masses of golden hair streamed out of the sole window. The hair, it seemed, had been petted and cared for as if it had been its own being. There were ravishing curlicues with slender golden ribbons; tiny roses and yellow starlike flowers were interspersed between the locks.

_Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair, said the Witch, _whispered a stirring but distant voice.

_Go away, _she thought irritably.

She approached the hair dubiously, looking up at its massive length. It must have been some thirty feet long. She curled one hand around what she judged to be a good handful and gave it a sharp tug to check for stability. There was a bloodcurdling shriek from above. She dropped the hair, much startled, only to find that a yard or so had tried to fly in her mouth. She gagged and coughed and sputtered and smoked at the mouth, of course, because she had tried to shriek herself. There was no use in apologizing to the owner of the hair because she would only start smoking some more, and the owner would think her quite mad. Which she was not.

But she did not leave the strange tower, merely skirted around the immense base until she found a much more reasonable ploy: a pair of well-worn stone steps. They entered into the heart of the tower, spiraling up with rickety steps that seemed to crumble under her feet. Still, she thought, they were so much more reasonable than attempting to climb up someone's hair, no matter how much of it there was. Goodness, she knew it was just fancy and romance that made the tales say that the prince climbed up Rapunzel's hair. If he had tried, he'd have turned blue with cold in his attempts or fallen to his death in the unforgiving snow, and as for the owner of the hair herself, she'd have had blisters on her scalp for months!

It was damp and cold inside the dark corridor. Her breaths were shallow, and she could see a fine mist – unlike the smoke – emerge from her mouth. The moisture on the walls made her think of green slime, and it also occurred to her that the entire tower was beginning to melt. She did not have long.

A thousand and one steps, she counted, before she reached the top where a large rectangular door awaited. It was made entirely of ice, as was the tower, but there was no doorknob, nor any other way to open it. Doors, walls – it made no difference.

_I am a Witch,_ she thought, and willed the door to melt under her burning hand.

_Yes, dear,_ murmured a voice sleepily.

The ice door swung open with a momentous creak and a good deal of water spraying about, revealing a rather ordinary room, furnished with an uncomfortable-looking straw mattress and a goose-feather pillow. There was a stiff chair with straw stuffing leaking out of its cushion, and a small wooden table with a basket of pastries and fruits. _The better to eat you with, my dear,_ hissed a wolfish voice and sniggered.

But most of all, there was a girl with a look of bemused shock on her face, rubbing her scalp with one hand.

The girl was not unlike her: she had startling blue eyes in a pale face, but instead of being fair, she was dark. Perhaps, that was curious, but there was an object of even more curiosity still. The girl in the room of the ice tower had an overlarge pineapple in her mouth, so that the leafy spikes seemed to sprout from that opening and covered her entire face but the hair and eyes.

The dark-haired girl's eyes widened considerably, and started waving her arms wildly about. She seemed like she was trying to speak, but the overgrown pineapple kept bobbing in and out of her mouth with such fortitude that it was a wonder that she didn't choke.

The girl in the doorway squinted at her dark counterpart, trying to figure out why she was so familiar, and possibly why there was a pineapple obstructing her speech.

Of course, she knew that roses were for silence, but pineapples, on the other hand, had no particular magical meaning. They were, in effect, very delicious but funny looking fruit, whose main goal in life was to look ridiculous. It never occurred to her that the pineapple was a product of the Witch's malicious inclination for the ridiculous. For while it seemed like a pineapple bobbed in the mouth of the dark-haired girl, the girl in question was actually shrieking and expressing herself quite animatedly.

"Sophie, where have you been?" Lettie demanded. "I have been waiting here _forever,_ wondering whether I should hit myself on the head with that pastry basket just to end the boredom! And I'm _freezing!_ I guess that's where you would think two tons of hair attached to my scalp would come in handy, but it makes my head _ache_! Oh, I could _kill _the Witch! Of _all _the ways to punish a girl! It's highly impractical and its _ugly_," she said in disgust. "The Witch didn't even have the decency to make all of my hair golden!" It was true; her dark hair, which everyone always argued was her second best feature (her best were her eyes), reached just below her shoulder blades where it abruptly ran into curls of gold. It made her look very odd, to say the least, and resembled, to put it politely, a very bad dye job.

"I," said Lettie in a tone of deep conviction, "am never going to be vain again, not even for a second."

She could have chattered on in this vein for quite some time, but the girl in front of her was peering at her as if she were wearing spectacles that didn't fit properly. Furthermore, she had not spoken at all.

"Sophie?" asked Lettie, looking worried, "is something wrong? You look queer, and you haven't said a thing, which is highly unusual." The girl merely looked at her, fascinated, and reached out a hand as if to grab something three inches from Lettie's mouth. And oddest of all, a thin spire of smoke rose from Sophie's mouth, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It smelled of heavy magic, and reeked, especially, of the Witch's hand. She cackled then, loudly and madly, smoke gushing forth from her mouth in alarming quantities.

_Heaven preserve me, _murmured a faded, but no less astonished voice.

Lettie muttered something foul and particularly colorful under her breath – courtesy of Martha who was an expert in such matters. "Oh, if I could get my hands on _her,_" she breathed, seething with indignation at the spectacle the Witch had put her sister through. "She has _got_ to be stopped! Turning people mad left and right! Well, it's unheard of, _and _it's rude!" She sighed, taking another look at her oblivious sister, and cautiously began approaching her.

The girl with red-gold hair hummed to herself, now faintly-smoking at the mouth. Humming it seemed, kept the laughter and curiosity in. It was so hard to repress that dreadful urge to yank the pineapple out of her dark counterpart's mouth. Didn't it hurt, she wanted to ask. She wondered whether the pineapple was supposed to resemble the roses and diamonds and toads and snakes that fell from the Witch's mouth. She wanted to laugh, to snort, but most of all to speak.

_We have the same eyes,_ whispered a faint, feminine voice, crusty with age, as if it hadn't spoken for years upon years. _That's how you'll always know it's me._

_I know you_, the girl thought. _But you have been gone for so long._

_That there, my girl, that patch of stars, is what we call a constellation,_ rumbled a deep voice.

_You're a good girl, my dear. So good to me, _sighed a thin, trilling voice.

_I know you, I know you, _the girl thought, suddenly flustered.

_Tell me where all past years are_, sang a listless voice, ebbing with each whispered word.

With sudden alacrity, the girl had an answer thought with such intensity, for a moment, she thought she could speak aloud. _Here. I hold all past years, and no one can take them from me._

_Nobody_ _likes a mad fool, _sniggered a crowing voice.

She replied with a ferocity that silenced the sneer: _I am _not _m-_" and broke out with a cry of searing pain. It laced up her neck from its source and over her shoulders. There was a torrent of rapidly uttered words in her ear, and a hand supporting her back, and she felt herself start to sink. _I am not _dying, she thought fiercely to herself. _Not like this, not without coming to get what I came for. _The floor was cold and numbed her knees, even through the heavy folds of the ridiculous dress, as she lurched face forward toward that unforgiving surface. And it was, with her cheek mashed up against ice, with the rumbling of the tower as ice blocks began to split some thirty feet below, and her neck tingling with the most unpleasant sensation she would ever swear to experiencing, that she bolted upright. She remembered _everything._

She was Sophie Hatter, the eldest of three, and – "That bastard!" she shouted, swinging her foot at the wooden chair. Straw fell out in pathetic dribbles. "Wretch! Nincompoop! Numbskull! Idiot!" she paused to take a breath, and snarled in such a manner, even Lettie looked alarmed: "Cowardly Bastard!" She aimed another vicious kick at the chair, which, unable to take such abuse, collapsed on its creaky old legs in woeful abandonment. "Huh," Sophie snorted, and eyed the goose-feather pillow with such predation that it was probably a good thing that the pillow was merely an inanimate object. "Cheeky!" she shouted, slamming the pillow against the ice wall. "Lying!" thud, "Conniving!" thud, "Fickle!" thud, "Selfish!" thud, "Careless!" thud "Miserable!" thud "Hysterical!" thud, "Cowardly! – "

Thud. "I think you already mentioned that particular vice," murmured Lettie, her eyes wide.

" – Roguish!" thud, "Unprincipled!" thud, "Slithering" crack, "Bastard!" The pillow had burst, and long, white feathers, flew across the room in such a flurry that it seemed to be snowing. Sophie was in no mood to be crossed. She glared at Lettie and said, "I have _every _reason to be annoyed."

"Oh yes," said Lettie in perfect agreement. "Every reason. He is a bastard."

"Yes," said Sophie, breathing heavily, and went to perch on the little wooden table, the remains of the pillow limply clutched in her hand.

The two sisters stared at one another in silence. Then Sophie began to laugh – big gulping laughs, which turned into snorts. "Oh!" she gulped with a little choke, "he _is _a bastard, but _she_ – oh, I would like to _throttle _her! Sailing into lives and scattering everything that we've worked for, as if our lives were just pieces to a giant jigsaw puzzle! What I _won't_ do to her!"

"The Witch?" asked Lettie. "Well, I should think so!" Her tone had turned fierce. "Especially after what she did to you, and this is the second time!"

"Actually," said Sophie, "there have been more times than I can count. But this is the first time she won."

"Oh, Sophie, how could you let her do this to you? I thought you'd gone mad!"

"Not mad," she said grimly, "muddled, maybe. I can't explain. I think everything was clear for once. For once. And I didn't let her do this! _He _did this."

Lettie raised an eyebrow. "He?"

"Howl."

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**Author's Second Note: **dum dum dum…. What a cliffhanger! P Don't worry, it won't be 5 months, this time. I swear that I'm going to finish this story before the end of the summer, and I mean it this time. I've already started writing what follows, lol, so everything is going to be well, not completely smooth sailing, but it won't be all sharp rocks and whirlpool all the way. Parts of Chapters 20 and 21 are already written, and I do have a game plan for what happens next. I'm fairly excited; I hope you are too! What did you think of this chapter? I want to emphasize that the sometimes-convoluted descriptions are there to invoke a mood, and they set the scene especially because Sophie is the way she is in this chapter. Remember to REVIEW! D

P.S. Next chapter, let's see. 3 weeks? A month? We'll see how it goes… and I'll keep you updated on my profile, so check it from time to time if you're really anxious. D

P.P.S - I know that Sophie doesn't actually swear out loud in HMC, but I had a feeling that she really would say "Bastard" here. Sorry about that if it offends younger readers... it can't be helped.


	20. In which a Wind is Raised and a Castle

**There and Back Again**

**By Calcifersgrl**

**Author's Note:** Wow… so many reviews… think I can hit 400 with this chapter? Lol, just kidding, but reviews are _very_ much appreciated because as you know, you guys are the ONLY reason why I've continued this story. IT would have died after chapter 4, I think, lol, way back when. Anyway, I'm here to apologize that this is such a short chapter, but I hope you guys will read and enjoy it. Some things are cleared up – sorry if the last chapter was a cliffhanger. The last chapter's supposed to be confusing because it mirrors Sophie's supposed "madness." The voices are from Sophie's past years or … hehe something else too, but I won't say it. Also, Sophie can see through the Witch's enchantment on herself because she has been injected with the Witch's magic (with the thorn) – she can see the things the Witch has bespelled. IF there are anymore questions, please feel free to ask.

And – er – my promise to finish by the end of the summer… gosh, it's already nearly the end of July. I'll try, I honestly will. But all of that just means that I have to write faster … sigh this might be the last chapter forever if I suddenly lose inspiration, though I have parts of chapter 20 written and I know what I want to happen – this story is just a very hard one to write. I often wonder whether this story is really boring and that you guys just keep up with me out of habit just because you've been with me for so long. But um – yeah, I guess we'll see.

You want to know something crazy? This little (er- huge) story is on 80 people's favorites list. When I saw that stat, I was like … WOW … you guys love me. (Grins) I honestly had no idea that so many people read this story, but hey, I'm definitely not complaining! Some of the people on the list – I've never even heard your fanfic name before, so drop me a line, lol, introduce yourself! Haha, anyway I owe it to you guys (and I'm sorry if you think this sucks, ok?) Also, last question: on the stats guide in our fanfic account, what do "hits" signify? I have a total of 2523 hits. Yep. But I don't know whether to marvel or what because I have no idea what it means.

Okay, enough of the author's note, ON with the story!

* * *

**Chapter 18: In which a Wind is Raised and a Castle Reveals Itself**

"Howl?" Lettie's eyes, which had always been rather large, were as wide as saucers.

"Stop goggling, Lettie," Sophie said a bit crossly. "Yes, Howl. I mean, the Masterman. No, I do mean Howl."

"Who's the Masterman?" asked Lettie, goggling in spite of herself.

"_He_," said Sophie with every aspect of disgust, "has been calling himself the 'Masterman.' Huh," she snorted. "'Master of all men,' I should have seen it in the beginning. He's vain, but I never thought that vain. It's ridiculous and preposterous – but it's _just_ like the Witch to stick the one person I'm searching for in the game in plain sight, all along!"

"Sophie," said Lettie excitedly, "don't you see? The Witch probably placed him in plain sight because I'll bet she thought she was being clever! She probably thought you'd think it was too easy if the Masterman really was Howl in disguise."

"It _is_ too easy," Sophie said, screwing up her face. But the disgust on her face was really reserved for herself. She wondered if she had known. No, she amended, she had not known. She had _suspected_, but the two were really not the same. There had been that curious episode with the frog, but she had thought it merely a dream. Or had she, she wondered uneasily. There had been aspects of the so-called dream that had been too real. Like the … kiss, or the pain in her head, Howl's accusation, that tinkling of broken glass or ice that had shattered within. Not to mention that afterward, she had fallen into a deep sleep. Or had it been a dream within a dream? She disregarded that uneasy thought. Even when she was on the verge of waking up, she had seen a shining figure atop an even shinier horse, who had removed his helmet, and she had recognized him as the Masterman. _Why,_ she had thought with some surprise, _you're the Masterman._ But, she remembered her parting thoughts: _He is not who I think he is. He is not who he thinks he is._ And yet, now that she remembered everything – or not quite everything, she amended – she could not remember who she had thought he was at the time, or who he thought _he_ was.

In fact, she rather thought she had muddled any thought that had been previously unmuddled. And she even admitted to herself that she preferred being mad, because at least then, she thought she could see clearly.

Lettie's voice broke into her thoughts: "… and if that _was_ Howl, I've a good mind to yell at him when you rescue him. Honestly, turning you mad! I'd be surprised if he wasn't mad himself!"

As usual, Lettie had unconsciously hit on the heart of the matter. Sophie had been trying _not_ to think about this – had been deliberately delaying herself with frogs and deep sleeps and faceless horsemen – but she found that Lettie expected a response from her.

What could she possibly say but, "I'm a failure," in dull, but dark tones.

This, of course, annoyed Lettie a great deal because she rose to her feet and winced as the long mass of hair which trailed out the open window tugged on her scalp. "Honestly, Sophie," she said, scowling, "I wish you'd stop saying that! It _isn't_ true, and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Stop blaming yourself and blame someone actually worthy of blame! Like the Witch! Now, isn't she a figure! Loses the Waste and just feels compelled to drag the rest of us with her into Winter!"

"Stop!" Sophie shouted, surging to her feet. She hadn't yelled at her sister since the days when Lettie and Martha bickered over their prospective futures. "Just stop!" Sophie said tiredly, sagging backward so that she bumped against the table. "Don't you see? I'm in _love _with him!"

Lettie blinked. It was an odd turn for the conversation, and she had a feeling that Sophie's mind had been elsewhere, but she picked up the thread and said cautiously, "Well, _we_ all knew that. If you bothered to stop thinking so badly of yourself, you'd have seen long ago that he was madly in love with you, and you with him."

Sophie wondered whether her sister was being deliberately dense. She shook her head rudely. "I _don't_ want to rescue him. I _don't_ want to love him anymore. What am I supposed to think? Is this how people you love are supposed to act? Push you into ovens?"

"Ovens!" said Lettie with some alarm. "I hope not! What are you blathering on about? He placed a magical thorn at the back of your neck." She added, "I should know. I'm the one that took it out."

Sophie remembered the pain of falling into the oven – of dreaming that she had fallen into the oven – and thought how very well it was for such careless persons as the Witch to manipulate dreams. It must have been then when Howl had made his move.

"Rose thorn!" Sophie choked. "I'm an idiot and a failure and a fool." She yanked at her hair, glaring at its red-gold color, morosely wondering if she was in such a foul mood as to attempt turning it green. "Well, that's that," she said after a pause. "I don't want him. I _don't want him!_" She shouted the last bit, aware of the concern etched on Lettie's face. "I don't, I don't, I don't! He betrayed _me_. He betrayed all of us. He's a coward, he's selfish, he's a slitherer – and I knew all of that, and I loved him still! But I can't love someone who betrayed everyone I love to save himself." Her shouting had dwindled to a croak.

"Sophie –," said Lettie, trying to be sympathetic. Her only answer was a well-shot glare under a swinging curtain of red-gold hair.

"I can't, Lettie. I _can't._" She hadn't meant to let her voice have such a pathetic catch at the end.

_Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love_, whispered a smug little voice. She had forgotten about the voices as soon as Lettie had lifted her madness.

_What do you want_? She thought fiercely. _Can't you spare some compassion for the miserable?_

The Witch's tinkling laugh answered in her head. _Everyone will save himself first. No one is exempt. No one._

_Well, who asked you! _She shouted mentally. But due to the look of surprise on Lettie's face, Sophie judged that she had spoken aloud. Bother Lettie, she thought with just a tinge of guilt, but it really was just a matter between the Witch and her. The next bit she hadn't meant to shout, but the words spilled wildly off her tongue: "What do you think of _that_ proposal, Witch? I don't want him! I don't love him! I'm not going to save him!"

"Sophie!" said Lettie, scandalized. "Do you _want _her to win?"

"She _wants_ Howl," Sophie said savagely. "That's what all of this has ever been about. It wasn't about any of us except Howl. It's absurd – two women fighting over one man – and she's prepared to wreak havoc over all of our Happily Ever After's! I never thought it was going to be easy – marrying Howl seems like it will be nearly one adventure too many – but you have to draw the line somewhere! I suppose if the Witch means to have Howl – staked, quartered, drawn – fine, she can have him. And I don't love him anymore!"

"Yes, you do," said Lettie.

A pox on Lettie and her insights. "Well, I can pretend, can't I?" said Sophie, somewhat defensively.

"Sophie," said Lettie giving her such a patronizing look that Sophie felt unjustifiably put-out. For all of Lettie's good intentions now, she still _had _been the one pulling Martha's hair less than four years ago, while Sophie had assumed the mature role of intermediary. "You love him. You _know_ him. Tell me something, would you? Would Howl betray you?"

"Yes!" Sophie said without an afterthought. She corrected herself. "No! I don't know!" She perched on the table behind her, and let her legs dangle. "I don't even know what form or shape he has anymore. I'm all muddled," she said, as if this explained everything. "It's like I'm mad again, except this time, I'm not smoking at the mouth or cackling like a witch."

"Fiddle," said Lettie dismissively. "We're all muddled, and –" she added, sure that Sophie was going to burst out with another "I'm the eldest! I'm a failure!" nonsense, "it only goes to show how human we are by exactly how muddled we are."

There was a ghost of a smile on Sophie's lips.

"What?" Lettie demanded.

But Sophie merely continued to smile and told her sister to continue.

"And why do you think Howl is the Masterman?" asked Lettie.

"What am I _supposed _to think?" Sophie replied listlessly. "The Masterman reminds me of Howl! He says things that Howl has said to me. He sometimes has glass-green eyes. But he can't remember either – oh bother him, I bet he did remember. Bastard."

"Sometimes green eyes?" Lettie said skeptically. "Howl _always _has green eyes."

"The Masterman switches on and off between having blue and green eyes." Sophie added, "When he thinks I'm not looking, his eyes turn green."

"Or maybe he knows you're looking. Maybe the Witch knows you're looking."

There was silence. Sophie's eyes widened to marble-size. She was obviously turning over this new perspective in her mind, comparing it to other instances.

"Right then," said Lettie briskly. "Do you love Howl? Better yet, do you _love _Howl?" she demanded.

Sophie made an indiscriminate noise which sounded like a cross between a half-hearted whimper and a cough. She bit her lip in response to Lettie's strong-minded attitude. Then she sighed and said in a level voice, "Fine, I'm not going to let the Witch win. What happens to Howl though … we'll see." She jumped off the table and started for the open door. As she passed her sister, she turned and said in a rather curt tone: "By the way, I saw Ben. He's a wolf. He tried to eat me, you know. Stopped himself in time, but that doesn't count for much. He had already eaten Martha and Fanny."

"He what?" demanded Lettie, outraged. She had followed Sophie, tugging her reluctant yards of hair so that an enormous mass of gold hair began rising out of the window. "Well," she said stoutly. "He'll have a lot to answer for when _I _get through with him!"

"What will you do?" Sophie asked interestedly.

"What do you _think _I'll do?" retorted Lettie disgustedly. "I'll slap him once for Fanny, slap him on the other cheek for Martha, and then I'm going to kiss him hard and make him wish he'd never been born."

Sophie laughed. "He loves you, you know."

Lettie arched an eyebrow and said redoubtably: "He'd better. I've had to wait for ages in this ridiculously cold tower with this ridiculously long and ugly hair for my prince to come. But instead of a prince in shining armor, I get a canine. Again."

She wrapped a mass of gold hair around her fingers where it branched from her normal dark hair and tugged ruthlessly. "Oh bother!" she shouted and cursed her hair. She then proceeded to rattle off a long list of curses without doing so much as taking a breath.

"That's impressive," said Sophie demurely.

"Thank you," said Lettie panting, as she gave a particularly vicious yank to no avail. "Compliments of Martha, you know. Oh, but _bother this hair!_ I think it snagged on some of the brambles below."

"You know," said Sophie contemplatively, "I think it might let go if you spoke nicely to it."

"Nice!" said Lettie, revolted. "Be nice to this foul thing?"

Since Lettie had a particularly mulish expression on her pretty face, Sophie sighed and begged the hair very nicely to, in essence, stop being so obstinate, and would it please retract to Lettie's normal length. Hair had never been known to show a sense of humor, but in Lettie's case, there was always a reason to start a precedent. Since she had been determinedly yanking the hair when the hair decided to retract with lightening speed, the result was that Lettie flew backward and knocked her sister over.

"Thanks," she panted, glad to have found a cushion for her fall. "Sorry!" she said next, upon Sophie's indiscriminate grumble, and "Thanks!" she said with real heart-felt emotion after realizing that the dreadful hair had vanished.

But her gratitude didn't last long. The floor had at last begun to rumble with loud, groaning sounds as the ice blocks ground against one another. The spell that had kept the haphazard tower together was beginning to collapse, and its ineptitude was beginning to show.

"Sophie!" Lettie shrieked, high-pitched and with real fear. The floor had slanted and gravity was taking its toil. Bed, table, chair, and both sisters began to succumb.

"Hold on," Sophie shouted back, and gripped her sister's flailing wrist. "I'm going to raise a wind. At least Howl was good for that. Don't shriek again unless you'd like a mouthful of wind and snow. Run!" Sophie had bellowed the strange word that Howl had taught her, which always seemed to be swallowed in a loud thunderclap. All at once there was a roaring sound in her ears that issued from a rapidly swirling whirl of wind and ice. The chair tore out of the open window and splintered on the ground some thirty feet below.

"Run?" bawled Lettie. "I don't think that's possible. More like, we're fallin –"

But her words were lost in one loud shriek as the ice tower literally tilted on its side. The table and bed whooshed out the side, helpless to prevent their inevitable descent. The two sisters shot out of the gap in the wall.

Sophie had always rather hated heights, and losing her only support, even if it was just ice, did nothing to lessen this hatred. At least, Lettie had stopped flailing about, which would have been rather hazardous to the plan. She had also stopped shrieking, which was welcomed. But this, Sophie thought, was probably due to the fact that she _had_ gotten a mouthful of unwanted ice and snow.

"Faster," she managed to bawl in Lettie's ear, and just avoided being pelted by ice in the face. She did nothing to relent on her death-grip on Lettie's wrist. They hurtled right out of the gap as the ice tower creaked and groaned and roared and at last shattered in on itself in one prolonged, lamenting dirge.

The ice tower's demise would have been rather sad if she had spared the time to think about it. But Sophie was preoccupied with running. Wind and ice chilled her bare feet, and once again, she wondered at the irrationality of not having shoes, but she paid this no more attention than she would to a passing thought.

Ground continued to skim under their feet; they were moving steadily along, and after the shock of running on a wind had worn off, Lettie stopped clawing at Sophie's side. Sophie rather thought Lettie was enjoying herself, reveling in the infinite possibilities of magic. From the awestruck look on her sister's face, Sophie knew she was planning to badger poor Ben Suliman incessantly for a new lesson as soon as everything returned to normal. If it ever did, Sophie reminded herself.

The charming if ramshackle life she had led in the Moving Castle seemed almost another world. (It was, in fact, but Sophie tried not to let that little detail deter her.) And the mundane life she had led after her father's funeral seemed almost an entirely different other. And the life before that, another. There were so many worlds to contemplate, so many what if's, what thens – what if her father hadn't died, what if her mother hadn't died, what if the Witch had turned Lettie, as she had intended, into an old woman, what if it had been Lettie who had barged into the Moving Castle and taken up residence. What if.

_Curioser and curioser,_ whispered a voice in her head.

Sophie grimly plowed on, watching the snow swirl around her ankles. They had begun to slow down. Instead of hurtling at break-neck speed, they had decelerated to a jog, almost a hearty trot. And at last, Sophie could feel the wind giving out beneath their feet. She grabbed Lettie's arm, intending to yell that she brace herself, when without warning, she slipped – though there was no where she could have slipped – and fell, plummeting to the deserted white wasteland as if shot from the sky.

Falling hurt, but the worst of it all, Sophie thought, was the fact that Lettie was nowhere in sight. The wind had appeared to have carted her right off, and … but all thoughts of worry disappeared. Her cheek was bruised from her rough and much unexpected landing. Her ribs were, at the very least, still intact, but they _felt_ broken. In fact, she ached all over, to the point, that she couldn't possibly think about Lettie and her mysterious fall. She lay there, face up in the snow, staring hazily at the unperturbed sky. _What_ had just happened?

Something sticky landed squarely between her eyes. Automatically she reached up a hand to wipe off whatever it was, and paused. It was goo. Sloppy, nasty, wet-smelling _orange_ goo. Perplexed, she stared at the substance and tried to puzzle out the strangeness of its existence. But she needn't have bothered. Another glob landed on her cheek, and another on the tip of her nose, and the next on the corner of her mouth. It was so foul she nearly choked, sputtering, and sat up, despite her aches and pains. But what she saw next made all of her complaints shrink in importance.

"You again!"

And in this, her statement was perfectly justified for glaring down at her were two identical little boys. Both of them bright orange and with the sulkiest expressions manageable. Curiously, they were dripping, even though it was perfectly chilly. Trust the Witch, thought Sophie, to create pageboys who were magically intact in the hot, desert Waste, but who would melt in the cold.

In response to her statement, the page boys merely glowered down at her, saying nothing.

"Goodness," Sophie remarked, "with all the imagination she's used conjuring up this exotic place, couldn't she at least have made herself page boys who could talk?"

Orange hands gripped her wrist, intending to pull her up, but Sophie batted the hand with her free one. "Whoever would have suspected chivalry from you of all people, that is, if you count as people?" said Sophie. She added, as the other pageboy stepped forward with an outstretched hand. "No thank you, that won't be necessary, I am perfectly capable of getting up and walking on my feet. I've been doing just that since I was two."

The pageboys said nothing, just continued to glance at her sulkily. But they acquiesced, and once, Sophie was standing, they began trotting down an invisible path that only they themselves could see – or so it looked to Sophie, who saw all that was peculiar in the zigzags and haphazard loops. The pageboy with the sulkier expression kept flinging sulky looks over its shoulder as they made their procession of three. No doubt to make sure that she did not run away.

She couldn't think why she did not run away. It would probably have made sense to any decent person, but Sophie felt no inclination whatsoever to try. The pageboys were leading her to the Witch, of that much she was certain.

She wondered how long they had been traipsing through the snow, where Lettie could have possibly gone, and, rather irately, why the conversation had to be so one-sided. "_Some_ people," said Sophie meaningfully, "enjoy talking. Even more so if the people they are addressing talk back. It is customary to have a response of some sort!"

Like their answers for all of Sophie's other goading remarks, the pageboys answered in silence.

"Oh bother," said Sophie, to no one in particular.

They went on in this fashion for quite some time, in which Sophie criticized their speech ("Silence is considered quite rude, you know!"), their deportment ("That dreadful sulk!") and their choice of color ("Orange! Heavens, what _can_ she have been thinking?") So that when they finally stopped in their tracks, Sophie thought it was because of her.

"Go on, you," she said, stopping with them, her arms crossing over her chest. She was in a mood to fight. "If I can deal with a green slime tantrum, orange globs should be no trouble at all!"

But the pageboys ignored her as usual, glancing ahead of them with deferent but sulky expressions. And then, with all the warning of a zip of orange blur, they were gone, leaving Sophie stunned and rather annoyed. She had had rather rude things to say to them on the tip of her tongue, but in the next moment, they all withered. In the previously infinite stretch of white, a large, white castle with golden turrets took its place. And there was a singularly tall, graceful woman coming down the sparkling steps as if sashaying to some invisible beat.

Sophie had only time enough to think "Oh, _bother_," before the newcomer came level with her and smiled, revealing large, impossibly white teeth. "Hello, Miss Hatter."

* * *

**Author's Second Note:** So what'd you think? Short, yes, but what did you think? Review, review, review! Love you all, and until the next chapter! 


	21. Author's Note

**There and Back Again**

**By Calcifersgrl**

**Author's Note **(05/30/06)

* * *

Even now as you, my reviewers, realize that this is just an author's note and not an actual update, I'm afraid that you'll be wont to throw tomatoes or other assorted fruit. I'm sorry for that.

I have not forgotten TaBA – this is, after all, my baby, and I _do _mean to finish it to the end. I have only three chapters left to write. I started this when I was about 14, here I am at the old and crusty age of 18. I _am _going to get it done.

The question is when. I've had a trying year. I moved coasts to attend a prestigious and difficult university, got over the three hour time zone difference, made friends, experienced boy trauma, then fell in love, experienced girl trauma a la Mean Girls, had a moment of peace, experienced more boy trauma, had family drama, had roommate drama, fell out of love, and concluded my freshman year of college. As I've said, it's been a trying school year, but through it all, I've grown. I stopped writing when I went to college. I actually stopped doing almost everything that I'd been doing up till then – writing, painting, music, sports, etc. What I've realized is that I _miss writing_. Now that my life no longer resembles the plot summary of an OC episode, I want to write. (I've picked up another project that I used to work on over at fictionpress so check that out if you're interested.)

I know exactly what's going to happen in Chapter 19 of TaBA, the question is putting the words onto paper/computer screen. Don't worry, it'll be coming soon. I'd really, _really _like to finish TaBA by the end of this summer. But as you all know before, that might not happen. Nevertheless, that's what I'll be aiming for.

I have two pages of Chapter 19 already typed on my computer. Unfortunately, it's still in bits and pieces, therefore, I won't have a teaser.

But I can give you the title and let you ponder over it!

Chapter 19: In which Sophie Looks into the Well and Receives a Hint

Anyway, thank you, thank you for not quite giving up on me. I sort of gave up on the idea that I'd ever finish TaBA. Thank you for all of your kind reviews and your e-mails asking when I'd next update. I'm still in awe of how popular this little story is of mine. It's on 114 fav lists. 5,688 hits, whatever that means (but the number is large). Wow, oh wow. I owe it to you guys to finish. I owe it to myself to finish.

Calcifersgrl


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